


Dissecting the Universe

by Enterthetadpole



Category: British Actor RPF, Freebatch - Fandom, Real Person Fiction, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Behind the Scenes, Ben is very patient, Completed, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Gets a bit meta in places, M/M, Martin is conflicted, Moffat finally ships it, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Season/Series 05, Slow Burn, Sophie is openminded and supportive, Tags Contain Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-21 18:22:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 37,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22267948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enterthetadpole/pseuds/Enterthetadpole
Summary: Series Four of Sherlock and so much pain has left what Benedict and Martin had in nothing but ruins. However, perhaps things can change if a series of events occur to make everything good, bad and unspoken float back up to the surface.Book cover by NightofFanfics. Resident Martin Freeman expert is LaKoda0518, who I pester daily to make this story as accurate as possible to names, quirks and such.
Relationships: Amanda Abbington/Martin Freeman (previous relationship), Benedict Cumberbatch/Martin Freeman, Benedict Cumberbatch/Sophie Hunter (off screen), Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 386
Kudos: 346
Collections: HolmesCon Writers Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for giving my Real Person Fanfiction a chance. Just a bit of housekeeping before we dive in:
> 
> 1\. This story is a complete work of fiction. It does have real people in it, and deals with the behind the scenes aspects as I imagined them on the set of Series Five of Sherlock. That being said these events as depicted here have not and will not ever happen (much to my internal sadness). This story was inspired by my desire to see more Freebatch stories on the forum with a very Johnlock spin to it. I hope that I have done both fandoms justice. As far as the story goes, it is about events (both real and speculative) as to the on and off screen, and eventual fall out and hopeful rekindling of Ben and Martin's relationship.
> 
> 2\. This story does reference and mention past and present relationships of Ben and Martin, which include Sophie and Amanda, but most of this is off screen or implied. I am NOT about bashing any of their partners, and all will be treated with as much respect as possible within the story. 
> 
> Now, let the show begin!

"No."

The sigh on the other end of the phone was heavy and full of way too much meaning for so early in the morning. The long suffering exhale came from the agent whom he had been avoiding for the last month in more and more creative ways. 

"Look," Mike said, and Martin could sense the resignation in the tone. "I get it. The show was... complicated."

Martin huffed into the phone, and then rolled his eyes. Paced back and forth in his kitchen as his toast burnt past the point of no return. 

"Learning how to walk around without falling down and breaking my arse in those bloody hobbit feet was complicated. Being a working actor in my late forties and not wanting to leave my house on days end is complicated. But  _ this _ ...what you're wanting me to go back to is cruel and unusual punishment."

This was where he should have hung up the phone. Pressed the end button with a force so hard that Mike could actually feel the  _ for the last time, no _ in every single conceivable way. Then make more toast and try to eat it before more phone calls about nonsense. 

"They increased the offer by more than  _ twenty _ percent." Mike's voice had an edge of pleading in it that didn't fit him at all. "I had to at least try you back about it, and Moffat will probably offer even more if Ben - "

"Stop," Martin hissed. "Just...stop it, all right? I'm not about to start going any more backwards than I have already."

The kettle gave a soft whistle, and Martin zipped over to it, silently glad for something to do with his hands. It was easier to ignore how they shook that way. 

"Romantic comedies  _ aren't _ going backwards," Mike grunted. "They're part of your brand until you get another blockbuster on the table. Black Panther 2 is still at least a year out until pre-production, and last I checked Amanda isn't one for excuses on late child support payments."

The recently held teacup in Martin's left hand fell to the tiled floor with a resounding crash. Mike facial muscles twitched at Martin's high pitched curses as the phone was placed on the kitchen counter. The next heated words crackle from the speaker phone. 

"How many times must I tell you to not say - "

"Come on," Mike snapped. His patience now absolutely gone into the bin to join the destroyed pieces of porcelain. "The earth isn't going to explode by saying her name. She's not Voldemort, Martin...even if she did get a bit evil in the end. At least  _ think _ about it, okay? I know you're still triggered by that shitty article, but this is a huge opportunity to get back at the role that  _ helped _ get you where you  _ can  _ be a fucking hermit for most of the year."

Silence. The kind of silence that had Martin fighting back a slew of words about how he didn't  _ have _ to do fucking anything that he didn't feel like doing anymore. That there were too many obstacles to leap over and dive underneath to get himself to a place where being Dr. John Hamish Watson meant something more than painful memories. Martin tossed the last of what used to be a perfectly functional tea away, his head in a fog. 

" **_Dracula_ ** must have really underwhelmed for them to be chasing us this much," Martin mused, taking the now blackened toast out of the toaster and throwing it away as well. 

"It didn't cause any fireworks, no," Mike agreed. "Also didn't help Moffat and Gatiss plastered  _ from the creators of  _ **_Sherlock_ ** all over the advertisements. Honestly, if anything that just reminded fans how much that got teased by the potential season five."

Martin huffed again. His hands now slightly steadier as he switched the phone off of speaker mode and rested it on his left ear. The soft sound of Mike tapping on his keyboard as he most likely checked emails. 

"Potential seems to be becoming a reality. You..you think Ben would  _ actually _ say yes?"

The tapping stopped, and Martin's throat was suddenly dry. 

"I've chatted with Billy enough to know that he's really interested," Mike replied. "Just a matter of getting schedules lined up, and you being completely on board."

"You act like I'm the one who has final say," Martin chuckled. "Out of the two of us, the great Benedict Cumberbatch has had more of the solid roles lately. Remembered? I'm Mr. Romcom. Got the business cards made up and everything."

Mike laughter was way nicer to hear than his grumbles. Perhaps this phone call wouldn't end with either man needing to crack open antacids. 

"You'd have cards made up just to piss off half of Hollywood. And don't even start about not always needing to be a smart ass. That's a lie and you know it.'

"Mike…"

"I'm getting to your question," Mike said. The smile now much more evident in his voice. "Yeah, I do think he will. Didn't have nearly the love lost for 221B some of the rest of the cast, and you said you yourself that you both got along well on  **_The Hobbit_ ** , right? So let bygones be bygones. Bury the hatchet, swallow your pride and all of those other silly idioms for just finally growing the hell up."

Martin was too exhausted to remind Mike of the fact that  _ technically _ Ben - other than occasional behind the scene impromptu photos - wasn't on the set in any real ‘person to person’ sense of the word. That Smaug, much like Ben himself, was spectacle and awe that need a team of experts to perfectly render him in high definition. All while Martin tried his best just get through the scene without staring too much. 

"How about we get a solid deal lined up before you have us going to couple's therapy, yeah? Bye for now."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benedict takes a meeting, and more is found out than he first expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter appears, and thank you all for your comments and kudos! I have been so nervous about doing a Real Person Fiction since my last time over two years ago. Your encouragement is magical, and it really helps me not fret as much. Please continue to let me know what you think!

The bell to the elevator chimed, but Ben ignored it. His eyes glued to the most recent flood of Billy’s text messages. Each response more frantic and cryptic. The last message asking Ben to just wait for him in the office lobby. So instead of stepping onto the elevator, he shifted to the right as the three people who had been stealing sideways glances had no other choice but to go to the upper floors without him. In the back of his mind, he heard his mother’s voice. Muttering that he should have at least _said hello_ or _signed an autograph or two_. 

This was not something that he needed right now. The disembodied voice of his mother whispering in his head about how to be a gracious star. That it's those same people who make it possible for you not to be having to make money in a much less comfortable way. 

"Excuse me? Are you…."

Benedict smiled before looking up from his mobile phone, and then back down again to the slender woman in front of him. Her shoes sensibly flat and apparently silent enough to sneak up on him like she did. It appeared that his face alone was enough to stop her needing clarification on who he was, because her dark green eyes went comically large. 

With a furrow of his brow Ben tilted his head slightly to the left, and kept his voice fairly soft in the echoing hallway they both were now standing in. 

"I'm sorry, but I'm not Daniel Craig. He's a bit shorter, and much more fetching when holding a martini."

The young lady laughed much harder than he anticipated, but it was wonderful nevertheless. Within a minute he watched her disappear down the adjacent hall. Her face now rather pink and gently holding a piece of signed paper in her right hand as if it was some sort of instructions as to how to cure worldwide hunger. Benedict chuckled, and then pocketed the pen he had used. Another suggestion from his mother because fans seemed to most of the time have scraps of paper, but never a working pen. 

Eventually his reason for being here made his appearance. All rain soaked and windswept as he motioned for Ben to follow him to the same row of elevators and up to the seventh floor. Ben took the time to watch a few droplets of water fall from Billy's chestnut colored hair and onto the plush navy blue carpet. The green umbrella clutched in his right hand looked very unused. 

"Forget how to use an umbrella, then?"

Billy snorted, his eyes shifted skyward to witness the face of one of his favorite clients break into that deeply dimpled smile. Billy's office sat quiet and unassuming in the corner. As always style swallowed up by style. A simple desk and other sprinklings of minimalistic furniture along with the slow growing cactus that was the only way for Ben to know that time truly had passed. 

"Must be big news to have you abandon you vacation," Ben remarked once Billy had somehow dried himself with what appeared to be a rogue washcloth. 

Billy grunted in agreement, and then powered on his desktop computer. The whirls and beeps creating a nice back beat to the taping he made with his sneakered right foot as he waited. The LA rain hit the window in a much softer way, so maybe he would get out of here without having to race for the nearest cab. 

"It's more than big news," Billy said he spoke up once more. "It's make or break actually. Thought it be best to tell you face to face."

Ben adjusted himself in the chair with his feet now firmly on the floor, ready to focus completely. Billy pulled out what looked like at first glance a script. The pages were heavily dogeared in places. Billy's familiar blue pen scribbles in different areas with small notes that Ben couldn't read from this far away. 

"Moffat had the first script mailed. Didn't trust it being sent over electronically. Got it late last week. I stupidly thought I could give it a read through during my vacation. You know, something to relax at the pool with while the wife and the kids were out at Disneyland."

Billy flipped the script open to a section. His lips a fierce white line as he skimmed the top of the page. 

"So, is the script that bad?" Ben asked. "Because during the past years we always were able to make changes wherever we saw fit. I'm sure that there's time to - "

"The script is stunning," Billy blurted out, and Ben blinked a few times in surprise, or more likely relief. If anything this admissions had Billy looking even more crestfallen than before. "It's is by far one of the best opening storylines for a show I've seen in years. I teared up twice."

Ben's dark eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Well, that's brilliant! What's the problem, then? Moffat wants us to film in Antarctica, or wear rabbit ears?"

Billy's mouth twitched into what almost was a smile, then corrected it immediately back to a look of the inevitably of the afternoon. His right index finger touched the topmost section of a selected passage. 

"Interior. 221B. Living room. Night." Billy recited. "John sits in his usual chair. Laptop is on his lap and he types slowly, as he still does after all of this time. The sounds of Rosie sleeping can be heard over the baby monitor on the small table next to John. Sherlock enters from hallway in his dressing gown and usual pajamas. Sherlock pauses and waits until John looks up.

**JOHN**

**Evening. Finally done sulking? If so, how about Chinese? Just got Rosie to bed.**

**SHERLOCK**

**Not sulking. Thinking.**

_John gives Sherlock an unconvinced look._

**JOHN**

**Fine. Thinking then. Still haven't answered my question about take away.**

**SHERLOCK**

**Are we going to pretend that what happened yesterday didn't happen?**

**JOHN**

**No. We are** **_absolutely_ ** **going to talk about it. Just not now.**

_John goes back to his phone. Sherlock's demeanor changes to confusion. He walks over to John and sits over on the adjoining couch. He is jittery and agitated. He tries to speak a couple of times, but can't find the words._

**Sherlock**

**And can't see why we can't talk about it right now. You're doing nothing that import-**

_John in one motion gets up and throws his phone against the wall about a foot above Sherlock's head. It shatters into many pieces. Sherlock doesn't flinch at all. Rosie mumbles over the baby monitor, but doesn't wake up. Sherlock sits in the same spot and looks up at John, who is now towering above him. Sherlock's face is impassive, yet something is bubbling up under the surface._

**JOHN**

**Because for** **_once_ ** **in my fucking life I'm going to give myself time to figure out what something meant to me without being pushed to label it or define it or categorize it in a series of checkmarks in boxes or whatever the hell it is! Not until I'm fucking ready! Is that clear enough?**

“John leaves the room. The sound of his heavy footsteps to his bedroom echo through the flat. The living room fades to black with Sherlock still in the same spot, staring at his hands.”

Billy closed the script and regarded Ben carefully. His expression is soft. Almost apologetic. Ben leaned over and took the script in hand. Reread the passage over again. Could already see how the scene would play out. Martin's ability to shift John Watson from carefully controlled doctor to the still - _at times_ \- battle ready soldier. He'd be brilliant. Every look and expression full of meanings that Ben could follow like a moth to a flame. 

Confirming his theory, Ben flipped to the previous scene, and then placed the now closed script back on the desk.

"I'm fine with this," Ben said firmly. "Why would you think I wouldn't be?"

Billy's light brown eyes floated from Ben to the script, and then back to Ben. "Because this is _different_. Not just subtle flirty language or…."

Whatever Billy was about to say next apparently was lost in the back of his throat. 

" **_Sherlock_ ** has always been a figurative love story," Ben said as casually as he could. "And now it can be a literal one as well."

"It's going to get even more involved than this," Billy sighed. "If episode one has you both sharing a kiss and dealing with the fall out, then you _know_ it's going to advance from there."

"And what if it _does_ ? Martin and I are both professionals. He's told me in private that if the series ever decided to have them in a romantic relationship he'd be fine with that. I've _played_ gay characters before, or have you not noticed that?"

Billy pressed his hand to his face, clearly trying to stop an impending headache. The next words he spoke slightly muffled.

"Yes, of course I know that, but Martin may have changed his mind. It would be fitting with all the other negative quotes he's given the press."

"That was a misquote," Ben said with a wave of his hand. 

"But you calling his reaction to fan criticism _pathetic_ was not."

The low blow startled Ben into standing and turning to escape. Billy's voice sounded distant and broken. 

"I'm fine with what’s being asked," Ben said. The old fashioned door knob cool to the touch. "More than fine. I'll sign for the new series unless Martin refuses. Until then, I'll assume I need to start slimming down again to make sure I can fit into that damned wardrobe."

The door rattled shut, and left Billy to only be able to stare at the place where Benedict had just been. His strategy already being formed as to how to best spin whatever praise or backlash that would be coming for Ben, whether the actor was ready for it or not. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benedict spends some time trying to figure out how to reach out to Martin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience with my next update. I'm sorry about the delay, as I did really want to make this story all about weekly updates. I am going to try my best to put out another chapter by the end of the weekend. In the meantime, please send out comments and kudos when you can, as it truly helps this fretful writer be less fretful. Well, at least about this...

“Love to say that I just can’t get to the phone, but that’s a lie. You know the routine.”

_Beep._

“Eventually you’ll have to talk to me,” Ben began, and then paused, realizing that the words had way more bite than he had wanted. He swallowed, wishing that he had ordered something stronger than raspberry ice tea with a wedge of lemon. “Sorry...sorry, that was…shit....”

His right thumb reflexively pressed the end call button in what Ben only assumed was in a subconscious effort to save him from further embarrassment. At least his hands knew a lost cause even if the rest of his body didn’t. Even with announcements made, confirmed and confirmed once again about the new season, it still felt fuzzy and cold around the edges to everyone involved. 

“Are you ready to order, sir?”

The server’s voice had a sing song quality that reminded Ben of windchimes. The type that Sophie would hang in the windows of their home. Her bright smile and bedroom eyes the only thing keeping him overthinking what series five could actually mean. 

“Just the Monte Cristo and a bowl of the french onion soup.”

With a slight nod, Ben was alone again with nothing but his speculations. It had been close to a month since Billy suggested a meeting with Mike and Martin. Nothing fancy or involved. More just to have them all sit down together and talk things out. Billy had danced around the _real_ reason for the conference, but his long pauses gave him away that he was worried. 

“He knows that you have his new number,” Billy pressed during their last conversation, “so…maybe…”

“You’re acting like he’s an ex I need to play nice with for the sake of the children.”

“That’s not that far off, actually.”

Ben hated when Billy had good points, and that blatant fact did not help him enjoy his lunch. The server seemed to take it personally when both the soup and sandwich were only picked at before the check was requested. Everything lately tasted like a mixture of stress and frayed nerve endings, which did assist in losing the weight needed to fit wardrobe. Thank god for ironically timed miracles. 

After what should have been lunch, Ben headed back to his studio apartment. The short walk helped clear his head just enough for him to begin to think about the script once again. Moffat reached out a few times to get his input, and Ben suggested a small tweak here or there, but overall nothing much had changed. The relief in Steven’s voice had been adorable.

“Your hair is getting so long.”

“Hmm?” Ben glanced up to see Nick, one of the security guards, regarding the top of his head before meeting his eyes. “Oh, yes. Needs to be for all the curls.”

Nick gave him a quick smile, and then continued on his rounds. Ben took the next turn to the elevator and headed up to his floor and then into his apartment. It smelled of lavender and honey from all of the different devices that Sophie had insisted could help him relax. She hadn’t been wrong in that. 

After a quick shower, he would try to call Martin again. Or would that be too many calls in too short of a time frame? There was no real recipe for how to reheat a friendship. Especially when that friendship hadn’t really ever ended. At least not in a sense where the media had grabbed bits and pieces of harsh words and misplaced resentments. 

“Love to say that I just can’t get to the phone, but that’s a lie. You know the routine.”

_Beep._

“I’m really not trying to irritate you with all the voicemails...just, if you have the time to meet up so we can sit down and…” 

He was in a bath towel, and _way_ too underdressed for this. The words coming out more in the shape of a eulogy. Heavy and thick and tinged with regret for all that had been destroyed before. Running long fingers through his still wet hair, he didn’t hang up. Might as well wait for this trainwreck to fully stop before accessing the damage. 

“We’re better than this,” he muttered. “At least, I really hope that we are...so, text me...call...send a letter by carrier pigeon if it’s easier. Time and place doesn’t matter, all right?”

The rest of the afternoon was filled with the same actions. Get dressed, then check his messages. Read something, then check his messages. Eat something, then check his messages. Set up plans for the following day, then check messages. Once when Ben was much younger, and in the production of **_Frankenstein_** , a fellow actor said that insanity was all about repetition and goals never meeting in the correct place. It’s unfortunate that it took Ben nearly a decade to understand what that actually meant. 

Eventually the day retreated into the evening, and Ben abandoned his phone to the side table. Turned off with the charging icon as some sort of quiet surrender to what quoting when angry could do. The glass at least wasn’t filled with raspberry iced tea this time. 

The knock on the door was so soft that at first Ben thought that he had heard things. However the second knock had more focus behind it. It was only at seeing Martin standing out in the hallway, in jeans and a fitted gray shirt that reminded Ben how much the shorter man’s eyes shimmered like moonstone when he was thinking about the best way to say the right words. 

“Said that the time and place didn’t matter, so...called your bluff. May I come in?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally meet, but what happens next? Talking or is that too much to do so soon?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter to make up for last week. Thank you to everyone for your comments and kudos. I'm eating them up like pieces of candy! 
> 
> Also a special shout out to Fandoms_Unite for their assistance in this chapter. I couldn't have done it without you! ❤️

It wasn’t fair that Ben was able to transform so easily. His hair now so long that it created waves at the browline and right behind the ears. The ridiculous cheekbones more noticeable with the slimmer physique. It was enough to have Martin fear for Ben's metabolism. As if Ben was some sort of gangly foal that needed to be protected against the harshness of the world. All long limbs and elbows as paparazzi hunched themselves in bushes for hours just catch glimpses of Dr. Stephen Strange as he shifted the mystical energy around him to turn into the London detective once more. 

Martin stuffed his hands in his pockets because he didn’t know what to do with them otherwise. Even now Ben was staring at him, all wide eyed and slightly parted lips. Framed in the doorway like a wrong footed security guard as he protected something that Martin had already destroyed. 

Neither of them were built for this type of tension. At least not when cameras weren’t placed in the correct spots to record their reactions. Martin licked his lips before he spoke. It was a tell that made him shite at playing poker and even worse at breaking the ice. Yet there were only so many times that he could ignore Ben’s phone number as it appeared on his screen, and then listen to the fretful voicemails left in their wake. 

“Martin...I...yes, of course, come in.”

The warmth of the apartment enveloped the space. Martin let his eyes scan the little touches of Ben that surrounded him from all sides. A familiar brown leather coat from about five years ago was draped on the living room couch. A flowery tea kettle sat on the otherwise pristine white stovetop. Smiling pictures of Ben and Sophie with and without their boys sprinkled the bookshelves and dark green focal wall. 

The sound of the front door as it closed had Martin turn back around. Ben stood as he always did when he wasn’t sure what to do. Rigid and proper and radiating apologetic politeness as only he could manage without coming across as stuck up or pretentious. The traits were so innately _Benedict Cumberbatch_ that Martin felt his heart give a violent sort of squeeze. 

Silence shouldn’t be this loud. Yet it roared in Martin’s ears like some sort of monster that would swallow him whole if he uttered the incorrect magic spell to make this all better again. Now more than ever he wished he had been cast in a role in _Harry Potter_. At least then he’d have a fucking wand to give his hands something to do other than sweat in his pockets. However, there was nothing supernatural in the room other than Ben’s ever changing eyes as they regarded him in what must have been understandable trepidation. 

Apparently this was where the two men lived now. In the murky uncertainty of who would fire the first shot, or who was to clean the first wound. Martin cleared his throat just to keep the monster of silence at bay, but it was only a small delay to the inevitable. Ben flinched at the noise, but then became a statue again. The torture of talking still in every line of his stiffened muscles and firm angles of his jaw. Ben was waiting, Martin realized. He was waiting to be shouted at for what he had said. To give Martin a swing of the sword before falling on his own, and that wasn’t going to happen when this entire inferno had started from a match that Martin had struck. 

It was hard to tell who started to talk first, but the stillness of the atmosphere shattered from two voices as they crashed into each other. Accusations and apologies thrown in equal measure. Martin was louder, because he always had to be. It came from needing to have his fierceness make up for his size. His hands now out of his pockets and swatting at the shame like it was a swarm of angry mosquitoes.

“I never meant to have the whole world think I hated working on the show,” Martin shouted. “It was maddening that no matter what I did there were always snide comments about what I should be doing with John. Like I had a _fucking_ choice about what the script demanded!”

“But you _did_ have a choice as to how you reacted to it,” Ben snapped back. His cheeks flushed he tried his best to keep his tone even keeled. “I spent weeks angry about Sherlock regressing back to drugs. Especially after how far he had come in the previous - “

“Well, bravo for you for being the better man,” Martin retorted. His chest heaving for oxygen that he wasn’t sure existed anymore. “But it helps when you’re not trapped in god damned love scenes with an ex. You have _n_ _o_ idea what I went through during series four. How much I _hated_ seeing everything I fought for fall apart around me!”

“Because you wouldn’t let me in to help,” Ben sighed, his arms outstretched as if hoping some sort of solution would fall from the sky for him to catch. “You wouldn’t let _anyone_ in.”

Martin wanted to look for loopholes and hidden messages in the compassion, but how could he when the walls were closing in? The suffocating support that felt too familiar to be pushed away and buried deep underground along with everything else he didn’t think he was worthy of at all. But that’s what Ben did. He hugged him tight with just a nod of the head or a well placed hand on the middle of his back. A folksy softness that somehow melted through all those elegantly sharp angles.

The monster of silence was gone now, and in its stead there were two men in the middle of a posh apartment in the heart of Los Angeles. The shorter man struggled to understand why the taller man still looked at him as if he personally hung the moon and the stars. Ben headed to the kitchen to make tea because that was the sensibly British thing to do. Besides, this time around it gave Ben something reasonable to do with _his_ hands instead of reaching out to place one palm in the middle of Martin’s back, where it fit a little too perfectly. 

They weren't made to sulk. That was more for teenage lovers or aging rock stars. So instead they stirred their cups of tea with spoons and watched the sugar dissolve the pettiness away. The sweetness of subtly took the bitter edge off their tongues until the cups were empty.

"Sorry for what I said about…" Martin paused, and then licked his lips. Might as well not try to bluff anymore. He wasn't that stubborn in real life, even if he played the part enthusiastically from time to time. "What I said about _everything_ , I guess. If I could take it all back...make it never have happened, I'd do it."

The gap closed as Ben crossed from the chair to the couch and sat down beside him. Their knees bumped, but neither of them seemed to notice, or more likely they didn't care. 

"Likewise," Ben replied, "All of what you said, and more in between."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tea and talking always helps. Even if they don't at first realize what it's actually helping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter just in time for Valentine's Day. Thank you all for the lovely comments and the kudos. They have been instrumental in my drive to continue this story along, and I thank each and every one of you for cheering this little Freebatch story. As always please let me know your thoughts!

Tea was the great equalizer. It was able to bring waring factions together, make grand political statements and on this particular day, it gave two actors something to comment on while they repaired their friendship one word and well placed pause at a time. Ben kept stealing looks towards their footwear now nestled next to the front door. Martin’s sneakers and his own pair of Yves Saint Laurents. 

“Did you steal those shoes from wardrobe then?”

Ben’s eyes met Martin’s and he gave a small chuckle. Of course Martin had seen what had grabbed and held Ben’s attention. He had always been brilliant at that. Quietly studying the scene around him whether there was a director or not. 

“No,” Ben replied. “Those shoes got a beating with all the running we did. Got the ones over there about two weeks ago. Helps getting into Sherlock’s mind again.”

“Walk a mile in another man’s shoes, eh? My god, when did _you_ get so philosophical?”

Martin shook his head. His laughter somewhat muffled by the rim of the tea cup as he sipped. Benedict smirked in response. 

“I’ve always been this incredibly thought provoking. You were just too enamored by my acting prowess to notice.”

This had the wanted response. That high pitched giggle that only Martin gave when he was taken off guard by something in the atmosphere that was truly ridiculous. The laugh was pure and honest and made all of the other issues of the world melt into more manageable pieces. 

“You really need to stop reading all that bollocks about you on social media,” Martin warned. “Head as big as Smaug’s if we don’t deflate it a bit.”

The wink was deliberate and teasing and Ben swallowed it up with the rest of his tea. This was what was missing in the last year or so. The gentle ebb and flow of their banter, and how Benedict could almost hear the waves as they crashed into the distant shore. It was enough to make him lean over and hug Martin as if somehow the smaller man had been lost at sea and just made it back onto land again. His now silvery hair now so long that it covered his all absorbing eyes. Disheveled but still in constant control of what felt like every single molecule around him. 

“I’m not allowed to dye it.”

“Pardon?”

“My hair. You were staring at it. Not allowed to dye it at all, even if I wanted. Steven and Mark want this season to be a pure continuation, so old man Dr. Watson is here to stay. May cut it a bit.”

As if teleported back to that initial time on set, Ben saw what so many fans witnessed in high definition. Both of them younger and full of nerves as to how the hell they were going to get through the first day of filming. Martin leaned heavily on the cane of Dr. Watson. The military air of a wounded soldier in every line of his face as Ben pretended not to see him standing there. It was hard to imagine Sherlock without John, even then. They needed each other before they even knew that needing someone would not destroy them from the inside out. Sherlock’s heart apparently was partial to comfy button up shirts or well worn fuzzy jumpers. John’s brain in turn played the violin, and sometimes didn’t talk for days on end. 

“You look great,” Ben said, now returned to the apartment. Martin smiled in a way that meant _you’re being way too kind_ and _thanks, I really needed to hear that more than you know_. 

Their cups emptied and refilled, Martin was the one who finally opened the script. It wasn’t as if Benedict didn’t think that they wouldn’t be discussing it. It should be unsettling for someone to be that brave, yet Martin seemed to always be able to take a step forward to volunteer when others were still trying to grasp how they got into this line in the first place. 

“What do you really feel about all of it?” 

Ben blinked as he thought about the weight of Martin’s words. The gravity of not only what he was asking directly, but the emotions and trepidations that hung just off to the sides. 

“I think that the building blocks of Sherlock and John becoming a fully romantic couple were always there,” Ben said, his eyes still on page fourteen of the script. “It’s clear that they love each other. At least, I have always seen it as Sherlock being in love with John since he shot the cabbie. The only way I could ever see his head turned would be with an act of murder.”

Another laugh from Martin gave Ben the courage to look up. The sight of Martin’s smile never disappointed him. 

“I agree. John on the other hand I think began to fall in love after the pool incident, though he was absolutely impressed by all of Sherlock’s deductions before then. Though he didn’t know what to call it, of course. Admiration and adoration are only a few letters apart, anyway.”

Only Martin could do that. Bring the conversation to a place where everyone else just had to stop and stare as he nonchalantly muttered profound lines of thought as others would toss out a cheery _hello_. Then sit back and continue chatting as if he hadn’t stunned the rest of the audience into silence. It took Ben a few seconds to remember how to breathe.

“You have no idea that you do that, do you?”

“Do what?”

Martin looked genuinely confused, and Ben hated that he couldn’t tell if this was just Martin’s natural brilliance at acting or he really had no clue of how remarkably perceptive he could be. It felt like breaking a spell to explain, so Ben pushed past the moment. Stored it away in what wasn’t so much a mind palace like Sherlock had, but more of a small ornately decorated box full of the other little things that got him through the day. Sophie’s whispers in his ear on the red carpet. The warm hands of his children as they wrapped around his index and middle fingers. All of the different ways that _only_ Martin could laugh. 

In the end it was the stars that made them recognize how late it was. Martin had cursed as he had jumped to his feet and pulled out his phone, and then cursed again. 

“Sorry, got to get going but...see you again before the head back to London, yeah? Take you to lunch? You are still eating at least a little bit, right?”

“I haven’t gotten _that_ thin…”

The look Martin gave screamed _I beg to differ_ , but for once he seemed to think that it was best to not take the piss out of Ben. At least not when he couldn't stay around to enjoy it. Witty banter would have to be paused until they met up again with something rebelliously fattening in between them. Benedict could live with that. He could live with so much more now that they were heading back to the familiarity of teasing jabs and unexpected compliments. 

“Just give me a call when you’re - “

Then it was as if Martin needed to startle Benedict one final time. To see his mouth open in surprise and breath hitch in a way that only he could do. The hug wasn’t even a long one. More or less a single arm wrapped with certainty around Ben’s waist, and then the soft brush of small nimble fingers to the middle of Ben’s spine. Just enough to let both of them know that this was getting better, whether they were ready for it or not. 

“I’ll call you, yeah. Promise.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin finally answers a phone call and immediately regrets it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, fellow Freebatchers. Thank you again for taking the time to read my story! Your comments and kudos help breathe life into the lungs of inspiration!
> 
> The article referenced in this chapter is here if you'd like to read it fully yourself: https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/martin-freeman-admits-smacking-his-children-lmkgk5qrj

It jarred him as to how much her voice had changed in the last few years. How the sensation of lilacs brushing the shell of Martin's ear had wilted away, and in its place came the sounds of scraping cutlery on overused dinner plates. Martin knew that falling out of love did this to people. Made their uglier parts shimmer no matter the lighting that surrounded them. There was poetry in the whole _thin line between love and hate_. Too bad that Martin was never one for enjoying poetry when the subject included himself. 

"To think that you would say that about your children,” she snapped. The coldness in the tone sent a shiver down his spine. Frostbite had nothing on Amanda in complete rage mode. "Little fuckers? What the _hell_ is wrong with you?"

She paused as if to give the illusion that she was waiting for an answer. Martin knew better than to step into this particular bear trap but still steadied himself anyway. His scowling face in the reflection of the mirror of his dressing room the same one he always wore when answering Amanda’s phone calls as of late.

"So you think that I am for one second going to allow you to take - "

"Allow me..." Martin hissed. "Unless you may not remember, they are _my_ children too. It's my time with them this weekend, and I was just being honest in that article about the fact that I've made mistakes. And you seemed to see no issue with the couple times that I smacked their hands or backsides. We even talked about how we _both_ needed to work on better parenting strategies."

His makeup artist Kim flinched as if she was trapped in some odd hostage negotiation. The stutter of her eyebrow brush morse code that she didn’t get paid enough to deal with the drama of the celebrities in her chair. At least without another really large cup of coffee. 

Amanda scoffed. “Notice how you only seemed to mention _yourself_ as the one that had anger problems.” Then she adjusted the phone so she could read aloud the most damaging lines. “But you know, I’ve done both. I’ve probably smacked twice, but I’ve called them little fuckers more than twice.”

Martin admired Kim’s ability to at least _pretend_ not to be hearing what he dealt with at least three times per week. More if Amanda was actively scouting social media for potential landmines to rebury into otherwise innocuous exchanges. She was clever enough to stir up his paranoia about when the other shoe was bound to drop. 

“There’s not much more I can say about it,” Martin replied, thankful for Kim deciding that this was a perfect time to refresh that coffee. Her exit out of the dressing room felt way more like a retreat from the battleground. Martin envied her ability to escape. “And this _all_ could have waited when I wasn’t on set.”

The door opened a few inches, and Martin glanced over. His apology to Kim already half-formed, when for the second time today, he was startled. Benedict leaned into the room as if he had somehow made a wrong turn. His eyes were a captivating hue of aquamarine and his hair a tangle of inky curls. The bottom half of him was still in blue jeans and sneakers as if he had also escaped in mid-transformation into Sherlock Holmes.

“Kim said you needed a distraction,” Ben whispered, and Martin made a mental note to buy Kim a bouquet of roses. Then with a small smile, Ben grabbed the phone from Martin’s hand and pressed it to his ear instead. “Amanda,” he began, his natural charm turned up towards dangerous levels. “Sorry to - yes, it’s Ben. Listen, sorry to do this to you, but Martin needs to be on set in the next five minutes and you know how Steven can be about making sure we're on time. Of course, I can give you a ring later. How does 6 o’clock sound?”

Martin wanted to sink into some crevice. He was compact enough to do this. To wiggle into a tiny enough space until his life righted itself. Admittedly he would miss his children dearly, but perhaps in some ways that might be the better option. 

“Stop it,” Ben said, and Martin quickly looked over. Even with only part of him in costume, Benedict might as well have had the Belstaff coat billowing behind him. The intensity in his gaze that was able to rearrange Martin’s neurons into what at least felt like steel. “Whatever you are thinking about yourself,” Ben continued, “It’s not the case. You’re a good father. Your children adore and respect you.”

Ben handed the mobile back. It felt cold in Martin’s hands. Another reminder of what resentment did. It hollowed human beings out until they were ghosts of their former selves, and he was tired of the constant battles. If only there were a white flag somewhere in the linings of one of John Watson’s jumpers. He craved nothing more than to scream until his voice gave out. Then he’d have a more solid excuse for keeping his mouth shut. Instead, he slid from his chair and followed Benedict out of the dressing room. Always a few steps behind and prepared to walk into bullets and flames, just like the good doctor always did. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first scene on the first day of shooting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone,
> 
> Thank you again for your lovely comments and kudos. They truly help me so much with encouragement. Hopefully, I'll have another chapter out later this week!
> 
> Also a belated happy birthday to Fandoms_Unite! ♥️

Una still looked the same, and that didn't make sense. Ben assumed there must be some ancient series of incantations and firm English sensibilities that kept the hands of time from marching forward. She leaned against the fireplace of the living room set of Baker Street and drank coffee out of a Speedy's takeaway cup. Her gentle eyes watched Steven Moffat explaining something important on the page of the script. Nodding that, of course, she could _do that_ , and Ben never once wondered what the direction was because he trusted Una with any scene. Her ability to gracefully become Mrs. Hudson was as reliable as the sunrise. 

It was just her, Ben and Martin on the first day, and a mixture of excitement and nervousness meandered its way around the camera and furniture in equal measure. Mark Gatiss saw a small stain on a floorboard in the kitchen area as a perfect place to direct his stress. All 6 feet 1 inch of him on hands and knees with what looked like a damp dishtowel rubbing over the insulting spot like he was trapped in some cleaning chemical infomercial. 

A slight sound of a chuckle confirmed that Martin had seen it too. The tiny smirk on his face when Ben turned around more needed than anything else this morning. 

Ben's was now in the rest of Sherlock's fine tailoring. The dark slacks and dark green button-up shirt a stark contrast to John's tan jumper and blue jeans. Martin swept a hand through this hair to smooth it out as he took another couple of steps towards Ben. Moffat eventually talked Mark into getting off of the floor.

The scene was set up to be John returning home from taking Rosie to daycare. His arms full of grocery bags from Tesco's and prepared to head to the clinic to pick up an extra shift from an ill colleague. Sherlock was to be sitting at the kitchen table bent over a microscope and not helping at all. Typical Sherlock and John situation, but there were marked differences that were slowly turning into motion that the steady eye of the camera was prepared to pick up. 

It wasn't just the camera that noticed Martin. Ben could feel the subtle heat of John's gaze as the slight crinkle of paper bags was placed on the kitchen counter. The squeak of John’s sneaker as the doctor paused to watch Sherlock’s artistic fingers as the detective carefully lifted out one specimen slide for another. The delicate way the fabric hugged Sherlock's slender form as he curled around scientific knowledge as others would a security blanket. 

"I got milk," John muttered, his limbs much heavier than he realized. "You're still all right for picking up Rosie?"

"Quarter past three," Sherlock replied. His eyes still resolutely downcast as he jotted down notes on a lined notepad. "Mind the toes on the middle - "

The refrigerator door slammed back, and there was a grunt of clear frustration. John leaned his head on the now-closed refrigerator door. His back to the camera but his body language always told a story. A delicate balance of muted irritation and disgruntled fondness for the taller man who finally decided that his flatmate was now being interesting enough to stop his latest experiment. 

"Just to be clear," John said as he spun around to look at Sherlock, "We _did_ have a conversation about leaving human body parts in the fridge? I didn't just…"

John stopped and blinked a few times. Then he opened his mouth again but seemed to think better of it. "Never mind. I'm off to the clinic. You deal with…"

John seemed again lost for what to say. His face a flicker of exasperation that really only should see the light of day when his two-year-old tried to put her apple sauce inside the couch cushion for safekeeping. 

The noise of John leaving the room and heading up to his bedroom wrapped up the scene. As if a light had switched on, Ben is surrounded by people. Smiling faces moving around as he stays in the same spot. His eyes were still frozen in the place that Martin was. The thunderous power of John Watson was still there, even if it was gently fading into an echo of its former glory. 

"Simply brilliant," Mark whispered as he zipped by with some notes in hand for the next establishing shot. 

"Yes," Ben whispered back. "He is." 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin takes some alone time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone,
> 
> Another chapter has been completed. Just to let you know that this is where we start to see that Explicit rating listed on the tin. If you have an issue with sexy times for any reason you do not need to read this chapter to get what is happening moving forward. Just send me a Tumblr or twitter message and I can let you know what happened in a very PG fashion. 
> 
> On tumblr I am enterthetadpole and on Twitter I am TadpoleNinja. 
> 
> Also a huge thank you to everyone for such kind comments and encouraging kudos. This is my first attempt at Freebatch and my nerves have definitely been helped by all of your wonderful words!

The light from the monitor was almost blinding, but Martin continued to move his mouse cursor to the next screenshot. A pretty brunette with lips stained in some cherry red lipstick. Her hazel eyes heavy-lidded as she tossed her hair back and moaned. The man behind her muscled and toned as his palms glided over the curves of her ass and small of her back. 

With a quick exhale Martin paused the video clip. His left hand wrapped around his erection as if this was way more effort than it was worth. The strain of the day in the circles underneath his eyes and the pain of his shoulder blades. Masturbation was supposed to be a release in more than _one_ way. The inevitable conclusion of being in the close company of so many lovely faces and dazzling talent. Memories of charming extras in background scenes who would giggle if Martin caught them staring at him as if he was more than just a grumpy short man in a slightly ruffled jumper. 

He clicked onto the next video. This one featured an outside scene where the trees cast shadows over the three writhing figures. The two men were both tall and lanky as they kissed the smaller lady in between them. She was blonde and button nosed. Pretty in that unassuming way that Amanda had been before too many fights and distance created an iciness to her features that no amount of heated kisses and pillow talk could melt away. 

Another video would be better, but the man on the right side of the screen turned his head.

It wasn't Ben, but the man had many of his same features. The long neck and pale skin. The large hands and dark hair. The eyes weren't the same, because no one could have Ben's eyes. The ever-changing way they would stare into your soul and know exactly what you craved. 

The camera zoomed in on the man. His lips parted as the blonde woman engulfed him whole. The slip and slide of her mouth on the man’s cock as he gasped out a curse. Did Benedict do that when he felt a tongue on the base of his shaft? Did his slender thighs shudder when he wanted more but didn’t quite know how to say it?

Martin's right hand left the mouse and instead caressed and then squeezed his left nipple. His attention only on the man on the right. How if he tilted his head and opened up his mind, the cheekbones became more pronounced, and the voice slightly deeper. Martin rolled his hips as he witnessed the subtle changes, and somehow this was fine. There was nothing wrong with finding this man attractive. There was nothing wrong with twisting the saturation of this man’s light eyes to what was so much closer to what Ben's irises looked like when he scoffed. When he sighed. When he didn't realize that Martin was looking at him at all.

“Oh fuck,” Martin groaned. His left fist gained speed as he returned to the mouse. His cursor floated over to the picture folder on his desktop and opened it to the first picture of Benedict. His hair shortened and his natural auburn color. The full lips pulled back in a smile as the camera captured what happened when the photographer told him to _just be yourself_ and _not to pose_. The delicate dimples only hinted at because of the angle of the shot, but Martin knew they were there. He had witnessed them in moments of the giddy exhaustion that came from too many takes. How Ben’s nose would wrinkle up right before he would finally give in to the madness and the deep rumble of his laugh turned into a high pitched cackle. Martin could live in those moments. He could say fuck it to acting and spend the rest of his life figuring out new strategies to make Ben smile forever. He’d write ideas in spiral notepads and checkmark the ones that really worked the best. 

The next photo was a classic. Benedict in black and white and looking as if standing waist-deep in a lake was the height of sophistication. His soaked dress shirt gripped his body as the sunlight of the day nestled onto the contours of his face. Hair slicked back and elegant hands at his throat as he undid what remained of his bowtie. Martin’s thumb rubbed the tip of his arousal, wet as the water droplets that remained on the bridge of Ben’s nose. The third picture had Benedict at some sort of award show. The dark tailored suit and model pose almost cheeky. His smile was more reserved, and his gaze went to the left. More than likely he was told to stand there for a bit. Let the flashes of cameras capture what made the legions of fans swoon for over a decade. 

That familiar sensation of climax grew as each picture appeared on the screen. Occasionally Martin would close his eyes to allow the photos to move inside his own head. How Benedict tilted his head to make sure that the person behind the lens got exactly what they wanted. Ask if they needed more from him, and always smiling when they said they did. 

This was fine. This was natural. Benedict was a handsome man and was used to being looked at this way. By people who yearned to know what it felt like to have Benedict look at them like they were brimming with fascination. Martin gasped into his orgasm, the streaks of white lines hot as they fell onto his upturned shirt. The trembling aftershocks and hazy vision both enough to need him to stay in the desk chair for a while. The monitor glowed with the last picture in the folder. This time with Benedict leaning towards the camera holding a teacup in his strong fingers, as if asking Martin if he would be interested in a lunch date. The problem was that Martin knew the answer he'd give to Ben, and it wasn’t the answer that anyone needed right now. 

  
Well, perhaps the answer _he_ needed, but Benedict would never want. So, with a heavy hand, Martin did what he should have done the first time months ago when he was in this recurring conclusion. Sweaty and spent and decidedly mulling over his crumbling heterosexuality, he moved the picture folder labeled _Research_ into the recycle bin, and then hit delete.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first on-screen kiss is upon them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi my lovelies,
> 
> Thank you so much for so much support in this story. I have been crying happy tears off and on all week. This chapter is a much longer one because I didn't want to have all of you have to wait, and there is a small chance that due to life being life that I may not be able to get a chapter out next week. As always kudos and comments are the breath of life!

Benedict actually bought a hanging calendar for it. The days leading up to the 23rd crossed off in slash marks like he was preparing for a date with the electric chair. Billy had remarked that there _definitely would be sparks_ , which really didn’t help in any way. Ben opened up the script again, hoping that his nerves would somehow disintegrate by just reading over the passage one more time. 

_Interior. 221B. Late Night. Sherlock’s bedroom. The bedroom door is cracked open a small amount. Sherlock is sitting in the middle of his bed surrounded by crime scene photos and documents. He is wearing a fitted grey vest and grey and white pajama bottoms along with his burgundy dressing gown. His manner is frantic as he searches through the papers around him looking for clues._

_John knocks softly on the door. Sherlock doesn’t answer at first, so John knocks a little harder._

**SHERLOCK**

**Busy.**

**JOHN**

**You’ve been in here moving those papers around for the past two days. Time for you to at least get at least one proper meal.**

**SHERLOCK**

**Later. Promise.**

_John walks into the room and stands by the foot of Sherlock’s bed. He is wearing dark blue pajamas. His hair is still slightly damp from an earlier shower. His stance is soldier-like as he looks down at Sherlock, who is still looking at papers and photos._

**JOHN**

**Since you’ve told me those same two words at least six times over the last two days you should connect that I don’t believe you.**

_Sherlock pauses to look up. He gives John a piercing look._

**SHERLOCK**

**Then don’t believe me. The Work is important, and this case already has six people dead and still nothing more than circumstantial evidence to go on. I thought that you wanted me to take this string of murders more seriously.**

_John holds back some agitation as he continues to speak._

**JOHN**

**I did, but not at the cost of your health.**

_Sherlock scoffs and then goes back to the papers._

**SHERLOCK**

**My transport is fine. Nothing that you need to ever be concerned with.**

_John laughs bitterly, and Sherlock looks up again at him. This time slightly confused at John’s reaction._

**JOHN**

**You really don’t fucking get it, do you?**

_Sherlock continues to stare but says nothing. John takes a few steps closer and sits down at the foot of the bed. His face is resolute and his words firm and full of emotion._

**JOHN**

**You’re important to people. To your family. To Lestrade. To Rosie. To me. You stride around this world like you have some sort of untouchable shield surrounding you and the bloody coat but you’re not, Sherlock. And almost dying all those times should have even a goddamn genius like yourself clued into that fact. I’m not asking you to stop dodging bullets and stop jumping headfirst into minefields, because I’m right there with you because I’m fucking mad as well. All I’m asking of you is to eat a meal and get a nap here or there. Is that too bloody much to expect?**

_Sherlock leans back as he watches John watching him. His eyes slightly overbright as he sees John struggle not to break down completely._

**SHERLOCK**

**It** **_is_ ** **too much to expect. I’m sorry, John, but this is who I am. If you can’t accept it, then maybe this isn’t the life for you.**

_There is a long amount of silence, and then Sherlock gets up off of the bed and walks towards his bedroom door and opens it all of the way. He looks over to John who gets up and walks towards the door._

**SHERLOCK**

**Goodnight John.**

**JOHN**

**Sherlock, I do accept you for who you are. I always have, and you know that.**

_Sherlock’s expression is cool and indifferent._

**SHERLOCK**

**Do I now?**

_John looks up into Sherlock’s face, and then after a few moments of hesitation, he lifts his hands and touches the sides of Sherlock’s face. Sherlock is frozen in confusion until John kisses him fully on the lips. The kiss is over in a moment, and John pulls back._

**JOHN**

**Yes, you do. Goodnight, Sherlock.**

_John leaves the room and walks up the stairs towards his own bedroom without looking back at Sherlock. Sherlock stands and stares._

Ben closed the script and closed his eyes. His breathing in the same shallowness as it had been the first, third and fiftieth time he had read the passage. The lines memorized on only the second attempt. Both his lines and Martin’s, and yet he still found it too difficult to get his heart to stop racing. Romantic scenes weren’t supposed to _do_ this to him. He had dozens of sexual storylines under his belt, and they were meant to be stressful, powerful, and perhaps a bit embarrassing, but not this. Whatever the hell this actually was supposed to be. 

After another couple of read-throughs, Ben was convinced that he was actually losing his mind. The coffee he had made ages ago ice cold and the second cup shared the same chilly fate. Phone calls were ignored unless the caller was insistent. Luckily that happened only once, and it was just the person that Ben needed right now. 

“Hello love.”

“Hello darling,” Sophie answered. The sounds of the boys were just in the background along with splashing water. They must’ve been at the pool. “You holding up alright? Tomorrow’s the big day.”

Ben held back for a moment before smiling. “As well as can be expected, yes.”

It was a testament to how well his wife knew him because in an instant the rustling of Sophie getting up and whispering something to a friend filled the mobile phone line before she spoke again. 

“That’s a cry for help if I’ve ever heard one,” she chuckled. “Diane is watching the boys for the moment so that we can talk this out.”

Benedict smiled as the noises in the background became even more distant. Then the slide of the glass door opened and closed.

“Now then,” Sophie continued. “What’s got you so worried? You’ve always been an amazing kisser. Never had any complaints from me, and never will.”

She giggled and Benedict couldn’t help but join her in the laugh. Already he was feeling less like there was a vice grip attached to his chest. 

“It’s just different because....I don’t even know. Maybe I’m just overthinking everything. It’s such a big moment in the series. The build-up has been there for so long, and Martin has been just superb. Adding to the scenes these little nudges towards John seeing Sherlock as something more. Something worth protecting with more than just his heart.”

“That sounds brilliant,” Sophie said, slightly breathless. “Have you been doing the same?”

Ben picked up his newest cup of coffee from the counter and poured it undrunk down the sink. His chest twisted with the sensation of that vice grip again. 

“I have,” he admitted. “Just what I found to be best in character, of course. Steven and Mark have been shocked at the rawness of it all. It was very flattering.”

“Then I’m still a little lost on what your concern is, darling. You’re incredible with Martin. You know each other so well, even with the fall out you both were able to become friends again and give the show what I along with so many others thought the story was eventually going to lead. It's clear that you both are able to see each other in a romantic way...and no, don’t try to push that off, Ben. Everyone sees it, and that’s part of what makes you two so wonderful together. The talent you both have, and the level of respect and admiration you have as well.”

Benedict played with a loose string on the bottom of his shirt. The next question scraping at the sides of his mind, and he wished that Sophie would say something else. Anything else for him to avoid asking it. 

“What if I enjoy the kiss too much?” he said before he could stop the words from tumbling out. “How would that change things?”

There was a ruffle of fabric on the other end of the phone, and Ben imagined Sophie sitting down on their living room sofa. Her dark hair fluttering around the sides of her lovely neck as she pondered what she had been asked.

“With us,” she replied, “Nothing at all. I went into this marriage with my eyes fully opened. I know that regardless of what does, or what does not happen, you will always love me and the children.”

The next minutes ticked by, with neither of them speaking at all. Just the steady warmth of his wife’s kindness and understanding as Ben pushed the other darker question into the light. 

“What would change between Martin and me?”

“Everything, my darling.”

Benedict huffed a laugh as he ran rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “That sounds really terrifying.”

Sophie made a sympathetic sigh in his ear, but there were traces of the sweetness and fondness that was one of the many reasons why Benedict married her over four years prior. “It’s damn right terrifying,” she continued, “but some of the most magnificent decisions in life always are. Take some time to think it through, and you know I’m always here if you need to talk. I love you.”

“I love you too.” The phone call disconnected, and Ben swayed a little on his feet before going back over to the sofa to read the script one more time. 

He napped more than really slept that night. Dreams were full of bits and pieces of conversations that he had with people who talked about urgent issues dealing with the show. Their faces angry as they yelled that he wasn’t doing things in the correct way, no matter how hard he tried. Ben gave up at around 6 am in the morning and dragged himself out of bed, making the shower as cold as he could stand just to make sure he could brave the day. It was a good thing that he had a driver today to take him to the studio so he didn’t have to deal with driving on busy roads when he was still so tired. 

“You look like you haven’t slept in days,” his make-up artist Hannah mentioned. Her powdered brush taking an extra few sweeps of Ben’s under-eye area. “Everything okay?”

Ben nodded because he might just throw up otherwise. Occasionally he thought that he heard Martin’s voice in the hallway, but either by happenstance or choice Martin didn’t come into the dressing room to see him. The kissing scene was going to be the last scene of the day, and it was hard to tell that was a good or a bad thing in Ben’s mind. It seemed to change throughout the day, although the nerves stayed in the same place. Settled around the pit of his stomach and making it hard for him to eat more than a few bites of toast and water during lunch break. 

“You don’t have to go so method,” Martin whispered, and Benedict turned around. The half-eaten piece of toast still in his hand. “Only Sherlock should be eating like that. Not you.” Then he plucked the toast out of Ben’s right hand and handed him his usual type of sandwich he would eat when he wasn’t fretting himself into a panic attack. 

Benedict smiled and took a couple of bites, and the irony of being told to eat by Martin not lost on either of them. Eventually, Moffat called for everyone on set to get ready. Benedict sat in the middle of the bed and began to move the crime photos around as the sounds of the cameras retreated into the background. The lights illuminated the dead bodies as they were posed in various positions in gruesome detail. Nothing was adding up in Sherlock’s mind, yet it was obvious that these people were killed by the same set of hands. 

A quiet knock came from the bedroom door, but Sherlock took no notice. His eyes now checking on location similarities at the third and fourth crime scene. A louder knock came.

“Busy,” Sherlock muttered. 

“You’ve been in here moving papers around for the past two days. You need to get at least one proper meal in.”

Benedict forced back a small smile. Of course Martin had changed the lines to sound much more in the way that John would say them. The tone was more casual and still brimming with a nervous type of energy. As if John had been preparing for this moment to confront Sherlock yet again ignoring the basic human needs of food and sleep. 

“Later,” Sherlock replied, then a pause as he felt like some reassurance was owed. “Promise.”

John entered the room. Sherlock glanced up for the fleetest of moments, and then looked quickly back at the files. John had just showered and changed for the evening. A few droplets of water clung to his silvery hair. The warm yellow light of Sherlock’s desk lamp created shimmers in the strands of locks in the front. 

Wardrobe had changed John’s clothing. The dark blue pajamas were instead a lighter shade of green. It fit slightly tighter around Martin’s chest then the other pair. 

“Since you’ve told me the same thing at least six times in the past two days, you realize that I don’t believe you, right?”

Sherlock sighed, and then tossed the photo he was holding back onto a pile to his right. He glares at John for being there. For interrupting the Work with things so unneeded right now. Food was a distraction, just like so many other pointless that made Sherlock dream of never having to deal with the stupidity of everyday trivialities. 

“Then don’t believe me. The Work is important, and this case already has _six_ people dead and still _nothing_ more than circumstantial evidence to go on. I thought that you wanted me to take this string of murders more seriously.”

John pressed his lips into a thin white line. The hands balled up into fist that had probably decked people for saying less. For having the audacity to believe that they knew better than a doctor, or a Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. John shuts his eyes and willed himself to calm down. 

“I did,” John admitted, “but not at the cost of your health.”

There was a tremble at the end of the sentence, and Sherlock flinched. It would have been better - _easier_ \- if John had shouted at him. If he had hit him or called him names like so many others did. Those were scenarios that Sherlock could open up and investigate, or if the pain got too great, he could walk away in a swirl of coat. This tenderness felt hot and way way too close. 

“My transport is fine,” Sherlock said, his eyes going back to the Work. “Nothing that you need to be concerned with.”

A laugh that didn’t match the usual giggles that Sherlock relished floods through the room. A laugh that was harsh and sour and John should never ever laugh like that. Puzzled, Sherlock forced himself to look back up. 

“You really don’t fucking get it, do you?” John took another few steps closer to Sherlock. The scent of mint toothpaste and newly bought shampoo. It irritated Sherlock how John never seemed to want to use the higher end hair care products that were already in the flat. Always went on and on about how it mattered that he spent his own money. At least he allowed Sherlock to buy toys and clothes for Rosie. 

Another sniff pulled Sherlock back to John’s face. John looked so burdened by too much worry being held up on his still dodgy shoulder. “You’re important to people. To your family. Lestrade. Rosie. To _me_ . You stride around this world like you have some sort of untouchable shield surrounding you and that bloody coat but you’re _not_ , Sherlock. Almost dying all those times should’ve clued a genius like you to that. I’m not asking you to stop dodging bullets or jump headfirst into minefields. Hell, I’m right there _with_ you because I’m fucking mad as well. All I’m asking... _begging_ you is to eat a meal and get a nap here or there. Is that too bloody much to expect?”

Too close. John’s way too close to breaking down doors that have reasons to be locked and the key thrown away. A warmth that had Sherlock wonder Moriarty was right. The hearts burn when they are cut out of your chest.

“It _is_ too much to expect,” Sherlock rasped. His voice needed to sound stronger than what came out, but he would have to make do. “I’m sorry, John, but this is who I am. If you can’t accept it, then maybe this isn’t the life for you.”

The room was still. The only sounds were Sherlock’s footfalls as he padded over to the bedroom door and opened all the way. John’s face partly in shadow he looked up at him in emotions that Sherlock refused to deduce. At least not right now. 

“Goodnight John.”

For a split second, Ben wondered if Martin made a mistake with the cue. Instead of saying his next line he instead took a tentative step out to the hallway. The slight twitch of his old psychosomatic limp echoes in the way John tensed on the second step. Regression back to years ago when Sherlock knew that the old colleague of Mike Stamford was anything but ordinary. John turned back, the usual intensity set onto every line of his face.

“I do accept you for who you are. Always have. You know that.”

Too close. Felt like fire melting him. Only one more line, and then everything changed. 

“Do I now?”

Ben waited just behind Sherlock’s cooled expression. His muscles fought not to run or buckle under the strain. John lifted his hands to Sherlock’s face. The first rush of heat pooled there on each point of contact as John’s fingers held just tight enough to make sure that Sherlock would know that he was treasured, but still loose enough to pull away if he needed. Ben had dreamed about what Martin’s hands would feel like, but nothing had prepared him for them in the end. They were slightly dry, but there was a sturdiness to them. Confidence that Ben only could hope to have in a lifetime. 

The first touch of lips was barely there. More a ghost of a kiss and a sweep of heated air. Sherlock gasped onto John’s bottom lip. The kind of sound that a dying man in the desert might have made when he finally got that first drop of water. That was all John needed to know that this was good. That this was more than good. That this had been more than good since they giggled at that first crime scene. When Sherlock had insisted on John grabbing hold of his hand as they ran. 

Now people would _definitely_ talk. 

Perhaps it actually was kiss number two that was when John’s pressed the tip of his tongue to the seal of Sherlock’s lips. It was hard to tell since the room was spinning with a glow that pushed against Sherlock’s eyes. He opened his mouth to John’s awaiting tongue and John deepened the kiss. His strong hands traveled the length of Sherlock’s neck to his shoulder blades and held on as tight as he could. Then with a shared sigh, they were two people again. John’s face a flurry of heat and Sherlock barely able to stand. 

“Yes, you do,” John whispered. He licked his lips as he turned away and without looking back. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Ben knew that his knees would give out at any minute. He only willed them to keep him upright for the rest of the scene. Now the cameras around them all came into sharper focus along with the many faces of people who had all known that this day was coming, but none of them really as prepared as they thought. Someone must have yelled cut because soon three or four people were crowding around Ben. Their questions and compliments barely penetrated his brain as he made his way to his dressing room and start to figure out how he was to survive the rest of season five.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin deals with the emotional aftermath of the kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, fellow Freebatchers!
> 
> Sorry about the long delay. Dealing with moving and all the social distancing and such. However, I do plan on writing another chapter for you all within the next week. Thank you for your patience, kudos, and comments!

Martin made a misjudgment. Had gone with a feeling instead of thinking it through. It wasn’t like he ever did this before. If you just Googled his name article after article would appear. His face reacting to what had probably been a fairly mundane question. The reporter most likely very kind, decent and didn’t deserve to deal with the stratosphere of sarcasm that was Martin Freeman. 

_These_ were the interviews that went viral. The ones with quotes in bolded print at the top of his latest projects. Amanda somehow more than able to sprinkle in a comment or two about the most recent rash of controversy. However, this went beyond him stupidly musing while surrounded by recording devices. Ben's eyes after that kiss were something Martin had never seen before. A mixture of confusion and lust in a stormy blue-green electrical haze that Martin knew too well. It was the same expression his own vision held after days on set. The script more of an outline as both of them molded the words into their own language for John and Sherlock to learn together. 

It had been magical to just become these two men again, and Martin had ruined it all because he wanted the illusion of more. Martin's left hand became a fist, and it took every ounce of effort he possessed to not destroy his dressing room. Talk about a diva move to end his career. It seemed in line with how his life was headed anyway. 

"Martin, dear?" 

Una opened the door before waiting for a response. Her flowery dress was replaced by a dark blue pencil skirt and a cream-colored top. She closed the door behind her as Martin exhaled a breath that he hadn't realized he had been holding. The sturdy hand of the older woman pushed him towards the couch and then sat down beside him. 

There were so many reasons to adore Una. Her calmness in the middle of all the insanity. The way she always knew what and what not to say when people around her were slowly falling apart. 

"I don't know what happened," Martin began. His hands rubbed the front of his thighs just to give them something to do. "One moment, I was in the scene and saying my lines just like everything was the way it should be, and then…"

He shook his head, his eyes tightly shut as he wondered if Ben would be able to forgive him. The kiss shouldn't have been like that. A soft touch of lips and then pull away, say his last line and leave. Professional to a fault when cameras were rolling and he couldn't even manage _that_ without fucking it up.

"Sometimes it's the emotions of the moment that makes what we all do as actors so extraordinary," Una replied. "What you captured with Benedict was absolutely the best way to show John's love for Sherlock. You were brilliant. Benedict was brilliant."

Martin gave a weak chuckle as he looked over to Una's smiling face. The pride in her eyes was more radiant than he had ever seen before. 

"It's more to it than that," Martin muttered. Una tilted her head as she looked into Martin's shadowed face. Silent understandings and conclusions passed back and forth between them.

"I see," Una said, her lips twitched into a sympathetic smile. "Well, whatever you're dealing with regarding Ben, you can get through. Just talk to him. You know that he always has time for you."

“Not for this. How in the hell would I even know how to begin?”

Una placed her hand on top of his and gave it a small pat. The reassurance was so welcoming that Martin was halfway convinced that maybe it was that simple. Just a quick sit down with Ben to confess that Martin kept folders of photos on his laptop and when his will was too weak he would allow thoughts of the other man in his bed. His plush lips kissing anywhere that he dared until Martin was trembling in want. How much Martin dreamed of touching those cheekbones and elegant neck without others being ever-present. Where John and Sherlock disappeared and Martin and Benedict emerged. 

“Beginnings can be difficult,” Una conceded. “So it’s a good thing that you and he aren’t at the beginning, hm?”

Martin frowned. “Not at the beginning?”

“Of course not, dear. After all this time alive, I know when smiles are more than just that. _Talk_ to him. Even if just to give you both of you the time to sort out what’s what.”

An hour later Martin still sat in his dressing room. His mobile phone in his hand as he rewrote the text for what must have been the 85th time. The send button never seemed to be so difficult to push.

**We need to talk about today. Can you meet me at my place tomorrow afternoon?**

Sent.

Three dots appeared almost at once, and Martin actually felt his mouth go dry. His mind imagining Ben somehow waiting for him to reach out, and suddenly Martin’s stomach lurched with guilt. 

**Yes. I can be there at 2 p** **m.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin and Ben finally really talk...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for such wonderful comments and kudos. It really has helped me feel less self-conscious about my talent as a writer. I am at the end of the day, a fretful creature who just wants to be loved. Much like a pug, just with longer hair and less snorting. 
> 
> This chapter is a long one, and I do hope that you enjoy it.

The alarm on his phone screeched, but Martin was already awake. Fumbling with his left hand, he groped over blindly to shut off the noise. His head faced up in the overwhelming softness of pillows, and the stale smell of the leftover chicken he forgot to put away in the fridge. The mattress creaked under his weight as he shifted and then pushed himself up and yawned. Bones and muscles all angry at him for not stretching properly before finally settling down for the night.

He yawned once more, but this time there was more movement with it as he relaxed his neck to allow his chin to dip down to his chest. Then rolled his head as small little _pops_ and _snaps_ reminded him that drinking all night was a young man’s game, and there was _nothing_ that felt youthful about him at the moment. There was a weariness that hung off of his shoulders and back. Along with the creeping sensation of dread that no matter how much he went through the various scenarios of what could happen at 2:00 pm today, it would end with Ben hating him even more than he hated himself. 

That was to be a challenge, but if anyone could do it, Benedict could. 

The phone alarm went off again, and Martin grunted out a loud curse before lunging over to the side table to press the _off_ instead of _snooze_ this time around. He only had a few hours to figure out what he was actually going to say. A few hours until Ben would be at his front door and waiting for a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why Martin pushed too far. Made their still fragile friendship crack apart because of his roaming tongue and lips and - _fuck_. 

He needed to get control of this. Discover a way to convince Ben that yesterday had been a mistake. Regardless of what Una thought or believed, actors had been fired or worse for what Martin had done. Maybe if they had discussed the _actual_ kiss beforehand? Then again how does one talk about something that nuanced without making the entire situation painfully mechanical? A first kiss should be sweet and tentative and brimming with barely contained passion. The kiss that John and Sherlock shared was _all_ of that, and it was terrifyingly real. Martin witnessed Sherlock’s eyes go from a rush of cold dismissiveness to childlike confusion and then finally a desperate longing for exactly what John gave him. Reached passed the dozens of people in the room with them and bled onto the walls, the dressing rooms, and even now Martin could still feel the spark of the residual rawness of Ben’s gasp against his mouth. So close to a moan that Martin was half convinced that it wasn’t the emotions of the moment, but something dangerously more. 

A kiss that became a statement for _I want you if you will have me._

What does one wear when you’re about to demolish your life? Jeans or a full three-piece suit? Would it really even matter in the long run? Probably not. It would just end up as more fuel for the flames. How Martin Freeman, lead actor, and occasional grumpy hedgehog ruined it all for a scripted snog. 

Martin fidgeted with everything he touched. His mind was abuzz with thoughts and theories as to what Ben would say. Shouting was definitely a possibility. Perhaps even a punch to the face, although Ben never _seemed_ the type to be that way. 

Eating was given up as an activity by half-past noon. Even the smell of food was more than Martin could handle right now. So instead, he gulped down more black coffee. The hangover now settled down into the back of his skull and that was a tiny bit better. At about a quarter past two there was a knock at the door. Martin had just changed his clothes to faded blue jeans and a light blue collared shirt, and it took a moment for him to open the door. 

Ben stood framed like a marbled statue in the doorway, his face slightly pink around the cheeks. His shimmering eyes the color of the cloudless sky behind him. Martin exhaled breath at the blue jeans he also wore, accompanied by a brown shirt. Apparently he didn’t underdress for once. 

Ben entered the house. His dark hair was brushed back and in his more natural waves. Martin rubbed the back of his neck. “Let’s...ummm, the couch I think. To talk, right?”

Ben nodded again, his expression fluttered with slight apprehension that did _not_ make Martin feel any more comfortable about the situation. Ben sat down first and swayed a small bit as he removed his shoes and placed them under the coffee table. Martin quirked a small smile. 

“Have you been drinking?”

Ben looked momentarily startled, but then his features relaxed into a smile as well. “Course you’d notice it,” he replied. “Had a couple of glasses of Scotch at lunch and I think they hit me a little harder than I expected. Took a cab if you’re worried.”

Then another smile, but this one had an apologetic edge to it. The way that Ben furrowed his brow and all those sharp angles and lines became instantly soft and approachable. It drew people in. Magnetic and powerful. 

“So,” Ben continued. “You said you wanted to talk about yesterday?”

Something buried itself in Martin’s chest, and he was sure it had punctured his lungs. Something hot and jagged and made it difficult for his lungs to work correctly, but still, he nodded anyway. Then he sat next to Ben on the couch but made sure that he kept a respectable distance. “I did. About the first kiss. I wanted to apologize if I made you…” 

He couldn’t do this with the way Ben was regarding him. The hauntingly beautiful eyes and the swan-like neck were all too much for Martin to wrap his mind around. He felt scattered and lost and just wanted this _all_ to make sense in ways that he could understand or repress. Whichever one would keep him sane for a longer period of time. 

“The kiss was what Sherlock needed,” Ben replied. “What they _both_ needed. You were perfect.”

Martin had thought he had prepared himself for anything that Ben would say, but praise was not _ever_ what he expected. Perhaps this was again Ben just being a charismatic arse. Leaning to the left when the world demanded that it was proper to go in the opposite direction.

Well, if Ben could go against the grain, then so could he. 

“I didn’t do it because it was what either John or Sherlock needed,” Martin said. His eyes were beginning to sting as they always did when he was trying not to tear up. That was the last thing he needed now. “That was just a bonus. I did it because it’s what _I_ needed.” 

Stillness flowed through the room like some kind of sort of slow-acting paralytic. Neither of them moved for what must have been a century. This was why Martin didn’t confess things anymore. Why he instead focused on work and his children and the occasional one night stand. 

“And that’s why you want to apologize?” Ben asked. The richness of his voice filling up the cracks in Martin’s battered heart. “Because what happened was more than just acting?”

Only Ben could make it that clear and concise. While Martin analyzed and hypothesized there was Mr. Cumberbatch paraphrasing his bisexuality into an easy to swallow pill. 

Martin could see the edge of the cliff and he had made his choice. Foolhardy to the end.

"Yes, it was."

Martin's voice sounded so small and delicate, but Ben definitely heard him. His face showed an array of so much as he leaned over and to hug Martin. To hold him in some sort of kind gesture of companionship that Martin never should earn. The larger hands touched Martin's arms and then slid to the middle of his back. An echo of the embrace that Martin had given Ben back when they needed to forgive each other months before. 

Ben held him tightly in his arms, and for once Martin allowed himself this peace and calmness. The warmth of one of the best people he knew. The one who fit when nothing else did. They breathed and sighed and held on until finally, Ben pulled away enough to see the tears that clung onto his long eyelashes. 

"It's ok," Ben said, and Martin believed him. With a gentle sweep of his thumbs, Ben pushed the few tears away. Martin blinked as his vision cleared. So close that he could see the freckle in Ben's right eye. A flash of chestnut in a sea of silver blue-green. 

Martin licked his lips, and Ben surged forward and captured them with his own.

There was a moan that began at the base of Benedict’s throat that vibrated. The deep and robust sound of relief and satisfaction that made Martin’s toes curl. Then a choked off sob from them both as Martin took hold of Ben’s wrists in his hands and pushed him back onto the couch. Pinned Ben with his own body as he looked into the breathtaking face and watched the slender chest rise and fall in rapid succession. Ben’s pupils were blown wide as he waited for Martin to know that this was equally wanted. That Martin wasn’t the only one who touched himself and came fantasizing about the other. 

Martin searched Ben’s expression for some sort of caveat to this conclusion. For Ben to shove him away. Blame the drinks during his lunch and too much time away from Sophie. 

_Sophie_. Oh my god, what were they doing?

“She knows,” Ben said. “That I feel the same about you.”

“You...feel the same? But...I don’t understand. Since when?”

Ben sighed as he looked away for a moment, then turned back to look up into Martin’s face. The angle was not one that Martin was used to seeing very often, but the way that the midday light hit Ben’s features was particularly exquisite. “Years,” Ben whispered. So softly Martin had to lean in to hear it clearly. “I’ve loved you for years.”

Whatever control Martin had up to the moment broke. He curled himself around Ben and squeezed. Enraptured by the sounds that Ben’s delicious mouth made when Martin peppered kisses onto Ben’s chin and cheeks. Then Martin licked a long strip down Ben’s neck and it was so much softer than he had imagined in his dirtiest dreams. 

“I’ve been waiting..” Martin groaned as he moved off of Ben’s neck, “...for _ages_ to do that.”

Ben groaned back. “And for ages, I’ve wanted _you_ to do it.”

“Holy Christ,” Martin rasped. He shuffled himself on top of Ben and straddled his hips. Their groins pressed together as they moaned in unison. Blood rushed through their veins as Martin swiveled his hips and Ben threw back his head even further into the cushions of the couch. His mouth opened wide as shuddered at each and every caress. The ripple of taut muscles flexed and Martin took in each part of Ben’s body. Delirious with how he was finally able to look at him without hesitation. That Ben wanted this just as much.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Martin whimpered into the shell of Ben’s ear. His elbows caged Ben as he cradled Ben’s head in his arms. The glistened waves of dark brown hair felt smooth against the insides of Martin’s forearms as they kissed again. A tangle of tongues and teeth as they melded together. Two pieces of a puzzle that fit all too well. 

The hardness in between them was getting to be too much to bear. Ben tilted his hips up and a splash of wetness spilled in between them. Martin bit his lip as he reached down and unzipped their trousers. His eyes darted up to Ben to make sure that this wasn’t going too far. 

“God, yes…” Ben groaned. “... _please_.”

The sound of Ben pleading for his cock to be stroked would be held in Martin’s mind until the end of time. Along with the way that Ben’s breath hitched when Martin circled the tip of his length with the pad of his thumb. The small thrust as Ben tried and failed to not be so eager. 

“You too,” Ben muttered, and within a heartbeat, his divine hands were wrapped around Martin’s erection. Stroking him in the same steady rhythm. Mirroring Martin as much as he could. Watching Martin bite down curses and swallow them whole. Their hands sped up and Ben’s free left hand carded itself through Martin’s silvery hair. Tugged it just the way Martin liked it, and vaguely Martin wondered how Ben knew his body so well already.

“Oh, god...Ben…”

Benedict hummed in response. His hand a blur, light eyes heavy-lidded as he witnessed Martin on the edge of his fall. Ben was close as well. A violin string pulled so tight that it was bound to snap at any minute under the strain. Martin pushed up Ben’s shirt to reveal the flat pale stomach and sprinkle of auburn chest hair. The erect rose stained nipples as Ben gasped at the blast of cold air as his body was further exposed. 

Martin dipped to kiss each nipple, then Ben’s belly and then finally as if it were part of the plan all along, Martin soared back to the right side of Ben’s magnificent neck and bit down hard. A gasp escaped from Ben’s mouth, a final thrust into the tunnel of Martin’s hand, and then the first pulse of orgasm. Martin couldn’t look away, even if he tried. To be able to literally hold Ben’s pleasure in the palm of his hand and to see all the politeness wash away. The frozen face of ecstasy, and then the spasms as the climax overtook him. 

“Fuck, oh…” Martin hissed and a final grind and he was there too. Spilling over Ben’s fingers and onto his belly. Little _ah ah ah’s_ still fluttered around them as they slowly stilled. Martin felt boneless as he draped himself onto Ben. His exhaustion threatened to overtake him as Ben’s left hand came to rest on the back of Martin’s right thigh. Martin swallowed hard as he broke the silence one more time. “I'm in love with you too.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reflection on what just happened between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My move finally happened and I'm back! Thank you for your patience. As always kudos and comments help me so much. Thank you for reading!

Ben was dead. Everything around him too bright and warm to be anything other than stereotypical versions of heaven. All fluffy clouds and harp music and the glorious sound of Martin's laughter. He heard it now, as the silvery hair soaked in the dying sunlight from overhead. The deep blue eyes blinking down to him as Martin adjusted himself so that Ben was cocooned in more of that radiant warmth. Then soft kisses that began at the side of Ben's jaw and finished at the right ear. 

"Even if it's a lie," Martin whispered, voice so much rougher than Ben had ever heard before, "Tell me I didn't just destroy your marriage."

"You didn't," Ben whispered back. The weight on top of him relaxed. A deep sigh and Martin's hand carded through Ben's curls and tugged up so that their mouths met again in another rush of lips. This time slower and with more purpose. Phrases unsaid but understood by both of them. Breathing in unison as they rearranged limbs and sticky bellies so the couch was able to cradle both of them. 

"Either you're telling the truth or you're an incredible actor," Martin muttered somewhere very near to Benedict's hairline. 

"Why can't it be both?"

Martin hit Ben's right leg playfully, and Ben could almost hear the rolling of Martin's eyes. "Braggy git."

The slight sting of Martin's index finger on the nape of Ben's neck caused him to intake a breath too quickly. The pressure instantly removed and in its place a much gentler caress. 

"Shit... sorry. I really bit down. That's going to be quite a bruise."

Ben hummed in response. "My neck has survived worse. Besides, it felt good. Like being claimed."

There was a shudder beside him, then Martin made a sound halfway between a purr and a growl. "God, could you _not_ say mad sexy things like that right now? My refractory period has been shit lately."

Ben made a non-committal noise along with a shrug that was more assumed than anything else. As if he was only somewhat willing to do what Martin had asked. The answering pinch to his hip pushed out a deep rolling chuckle. The kind of laugh that only occurred when the world did things unexpectedly. A rainbow on a cloudless day or when a person you adore finally smiles back. A dizzying array of thoughts and emotions that crash and melt into each other until you have to sit down. 

Martin shifted again. This time so that he rested on his right side and his left arm rested on the expansion of Ben's rib cage. The fingers spread out as if protecting the heart he had already stolen. They inhaled and exhaled as close to unison as possible. Some odd ability they always seemed to share even before _this._ Back when they first walked onto the set of _Sherlock_ and began to understand each other without needing words. A classical symphony that they would hear inside of a silent room.

Another tug to Ben's hair and he turned to meet the complexity of Martin's face. The crow's feet and frown lines both told stories of a man whose soul lived and breathed for being _exactly_ what he was. The long-suffering Everyman surrounded by insanity. The unassuming soldier with the roar of a lion. The heart that ruthless killers would burn out until he was nothing but ashes. 

"What do we do now?" Martin asked. A question so loaded that it should've smelled of gun powder. The heaviness of it should've pulled them down further into the cushions. 

Part of Ben that wasn't covered in come and sore with the way his long body didn't quite fit on the couch wanted to make a joke. Perhaps how they should take a shower and next time not climax in their pants like bloody teenagers, but instead he did what seemed the better decision. His arms curled around Martin's waist and tightened until Martin pressed another string of kisses to the column of Ben's neck. Then to Ben's jawline and the tip of his nose. By the time that Martin stopped, it was nightfall, and Ben memorized all the shapes that Martin's lips made. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin tries not to panic too much and fails pretty badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dears,
> 
> Here is the next chapter! Thank you again for all of your wonderful comments as I arrange all of me thoughts. As always kudos and comments keep me going!

Mistakes were something that Martin understood all too well. They were old familiar friends who waved hello to him as he entered different parts of his house. Even before he decided to fuck off politeness and traditional values, the rebel inside his bones was way too strong to be compacted into such a small frame. _Napoleon Complex_ was what he heard so often that his defenses stayed in predator mode. Prepared to bite or distract from whoever called him out with only the occasional guilt that came with it. 

Today's mistake left an hour ago. His neck covered up with a borrowed scarf and had just finished a cup of black coffee. The impossible cheekbones the color of slightly smudged roses and eyes that rivaled the stars as he headed back to whatever planet someone that beautiful lived. Leaving Martin alone with what Benedict Cumberbatch smelled like when he was aroused, sated and all the harmonious sounds in between. 

With a groan, Martin shifted his thoughts and his now once again clothed erection. This was _not_ the best way of compartmentalizing what now lay bare in front of him. Sophie was a wonderful woman, but polite conversation with her about Ben's acting prowess was _one_ thing; admission to a mutual handjob with her husband was _quite_ another. Not that Martin was _trying_ to dismiss Ben's understanding of his own marriage. Considering his own sordid past he would choke on that level of hypocrisy, but it was hard to imagine a world where an open relationship would bring anything but confusion and judgments. The only people cheering at that point the media, and maybe certain niche groups on websites that Martin wouldn't even attempt to investigate. 

The chirping sound of his mobile phone lit up the darkened living room. It was only then that Martin connected to how dark it had gotten. The nighttime sky speckled with stars and the occasional silhouette of a cloud. The text alert was like a beacon on the coffee table as he walked over to pick it up. The image reminded of the line said so long ago of _'You've never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you are unbeatable.'_

But was he? Martin doubted that more than ever. This sea he was navigating one without a clear direction or a proper sail. It was better when dirty thoughts and insane fantasies were locked up in private computer folders and in steamy baths that later became very cold showers. The subject of which always knew the right thing to text in the middle of Martin silently losing his mind. 

  
  


**We're fine. I promise. See you on set tomorrow. I'll return the scarf then.**

  
  


It wasn't as though reassurance over text was the best way to help Martin breathe a bit better. He was more of a hug and pat on the back kind of a guy. At least he was to those who were patient and familiar enough to push through the external layers of him. The sassy and quilled parts of him that could rub so many people the wrong kind of way. The kind of way that had them blinking back hard and wondering what in the _hell_ just happened, and taking much longer than that to see if they secretly liked it. 

Apparently Ben liked it. Enough to kiss him back with the force of that tragic ocean liner crashing into that iceberg. All hands on deck but nothing strong enough to handle such an impact. 

Martin's hands were shaking too much to respond, so instead he slid the phone into his back pocket and headed up the stairs to shower, change and then pretend that this was all fine. That it was fine that he had confessed to being in love with his male co-star. That it was fine that he had made this confession to that _same_ male co-star. That it was fine that same male co-star was in love with _him_ as well. 

He'd need broader shoulders for all of this baggage, and more energy for the unpacking of it all. Until then, Martin would stick with the basics. Shower first, and then deal with rest afterward.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparation for a very important scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there fellow Freebatchers,
> 
> It will be two chapters today because I can't just throw out sexual tension like that and then make you all wait. I know that I have screamed at writers for doing that to me so I promise that I will not be that type of hypocrite! I will post of Twitter, Facebook, and Tumblr when both chapters are up, so if you are seeing only Chapter 14 post now, then you are somewhat ahead of the curve! 
> 
> To continue sounding like a Johnlockain parrot, kudos and constructive criticism and comments are always loved and valued. Thank you so much for all of the support!

There was only the slightest of hesitations as Hannah prepared Ben for the camera. Her steady eyes were born to notice any minimal imperfection on the human skin that she shaped into different beings before they had sat down at her make-up chair. Of course Ben was no different, and even if her eyebrows raised only the smallest of fractions at the bite mark on the right side of the iconic neck of Benedict Cumberbatch, that was the only hint of acknowledgment before she concealed the previous night away with various supplies built for such an occasion. Ben couldn’t have appreciated this woman more.

Martin hadn’t answered any of Ben’s texts, but that was fine. Ben had known him too many years to be offended or concerned by this specific pattern by now. This was how Martin processed when everything came at him too fast. He’d step back and figure out how to take the next step, and then he would resurface with a clear and firm decision. Whether to jump off the cliff or walk back towards the safer trails, and whatever his choice Ben was willing to accept it. Not because he was noble and understanding, although his parents would loudly argue that he was both. It was more that Benedict didn’t know how to be upset at Martin for any long period of time. Not that Ben hadn’t tried before. During the few years of them barely speaking at all, yet still trapped in the inner circles of Hollywood together. They obviously never went for the same roles, but it always worked itself out that producers and directors always drifted their visions of specific characters in storylines with Martin and his faces. Doomed to be magnetically attracted to each other in the same cinematic universes no matter the cost. 

“Been a while since I’ve seen you in just a sheet.”

Ben and Liam, the lead set designer for the bedroom scene, laughed at Mark’s innuendo. The set to Sherlock’s bedroom was softly lit just enough to make Sherlock’s pale skin glow. The small sections of darker chest hair barely caught by the cameras around them until close-ups later on. The warmth of the overhead lights helped Ben not feel as naked as he sat up in the bed with only his lower half wrapped in midnight blue bed sheets. 

“Did you need me to make any adjustments to anything?” Liam asked in a whisper. “The pants they have you in…really doesn’t leave much to the imagination.”

Ben gave a small shrug and a smile back. “Well, considering the scene it’s appropriate, right?”

Liam nodded once and then moved one other pillow into place. The sounds of movement stilled at Mark raised a hand for silence, and Steven Moffat cleared his throat. 

“All right, everyone. For the comfort of both Benedict and Martin, and the realism of the scene, let’s really try to do this in as few takes as possible. I’m sure that many of you have noticed the lack of much dialogue. I assure you that this was done on purpose because this scene needs to be about chemistry and nuance and I trust both of these men to carry the emotions of this critical scene.”

“No pressure then, Steven?” Martin called out from the doorway, and a few people laughed. Steven rolled his eyes playfully at Martin before he continued. 

“We end with Benedict’s line, and we start in five minutes. If anyone on set feels like they can’t make it through being on set while this scene plays out, I advise leaving now. No judgments or repercussions at all.”

Martin headed over to the foot of the bed. He looked as handsome as ever and somewhat more dressed. Shirtless but with somewhat faded red pajama bottoms and his silvery hair combed back. Benedict felt something decidedly warm when Martin grinned at him. 

“Steven,” Martin sighed, but the grin was still there. “It’s John giving Sherlock his first-ever blow job. We probably have crew members from other productions here just to watch this moment.”

There was actually a small bit of applause at that, and this was the Martin that Benedict loved to see. The barbed wit with just that small touch of sincerity that Ben needed to make the tension go away. It was brilliant.

_Absolutely brilliant._

“The way he gets you to smile,” Liam said to Ben as he made a final shift to the bedsheets. “No _wonder_ the fandom exists as it does.”

Ben wished that Hannah was here to rescue him with more concealer to hide the flush of heat that now burned the sides of his ears. He was acting like some sort of lovesick teenager., but he found that he only halfway cared. Perhaps he’d blame the pinkness on the upcoming scene. Sherlock was bound to blush like the virgin he was. 

“Take your places, everyone,” Mark called out. His large hands cupped around his mouth to make sure that his voice projected in just the right way. Then he leaned into Martin and Ben. “if either of you needs a break, just give the signal. Ben, most of the shots will be aimed at your face for your reactions, right? Martin, make sure to keep your angles in mind. Let’s do our best to _really_ sell this. The fans deserve it after all this build-up.”

Martin licked his lips in concentration. His nod of acknowledgment tight and controlled. Benedict reached over to Martin’s left hand resting on the bedsheets, gave it a small squeeze, and felt the smallest of squeezes back in return. Then he felt Martin pull away to the foot of the bed and wait for his cue. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock finally move to that next level. Ben and Martin try to make it through the scene in tact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you I wouldn't leave you all hanging on from the last chapter for long!
> 
> To those not looking for that explicit rating, you may want to skip this chapter. For everyone else, I hope that you enjoy and your wonderful patience has been worth it for the scene. Kudos and comments are food for my writing soul. <3

Silence shouldn’t move that fast, and yet Martin sensed every person who surrounded the small bedroom set faded away. Their collective heartbeats inside of his own restless chest as he tried to narrow his field of vision to Benedict looking over at him from the bed. The eyes a mysterious kaleidoscope of blues, greens and copper hues that always stole John’s breath even back then. Years ago before mighty falls and bullet wounds had almost robbed the two of them of this. Even now, Sherlock was deducing his every move. Trying to even now he steps ahead as they ran towards the uncharted corners and back alleys of what the next step in was always inevitable. As predictable as a sunrise and with just as much blinding heat and coloration. 

Kisses were simpler after the initial shock of it all. Occasional pecks that carried John day to day. Not enough to keep him firmly on solid ground, but that was fine. This wasn’t ever meant to rush. John had done too much of that in all of his years getting naked for all the wrong reasons. The need to touch and grope because his body screamed out for release because sex was new, than expected and then in the last few years endured. A hardship with occasional moments of something almost tangibly happy. Spots of light fluttered through a darkened room. 

Sherlock twisted in the bed linens as he waited. It was an odd sight to see. This quiet hesitation almost softened the lines of his body. Made him nearly approachable. The machine who wanted to be more human, but didn’t have a clue as to where to begin. 

“You’re still fine with this?”

And just like that, the mask of regal indifference was back in place. The ability for elegance to push through and make a bedsheet and tangle of curls turn into a royal robe and crown as he stomped through Buckingham Palace years ago. Threatening nudity to anyone who tried to _dare_ tell him what to do. Back then it took all of John’s strength not to laugh until his sides ached, but this situation had a much sultrier tone. 

“If I wasn’t fine with this we wouldn’t be here,” Sherlock replied, and John was impressed by the casual tone. However, the nervous way that Sherlock's toes wiggled under the sheets gave him away. The slight wrinkle in the browline cemented the fear of the present, and perhaps even the future. 

John had assumed for years that Sherlock had slept with Irene Adler because it made complete sense to him that they had. Even without the orgasmic text alerts and the obvious attraction, how was it _not_ possible? Two raven-haired creatures of such beauty and minds belonged in bed together. Connecting their various limbs in some sort of artistic expression of what happens when a woman was able to get the world’s only consulting detective to pause long enough to place her body measurements into a secret part of his mind palace. For those numbers to be important enough to delete unnecessary data like primary colors or that England had a queen. 

However, John had been wrong. Sherlock had told him that 'The Woman' _had_ been intellectually intriguing enough to have him rescue her from a date with a blade, but anything further than that just wasn’t possible. It had taken John days to recover from that revelation. It took him even longer to wrap his head around the very real truth that Sherlock had never been touched at all. 

“John?” 

Sherlock’s facial muscles seemed to grow weary of the aloofness and instead settled into an apologetic air. John was reminded of those rare times when Sherlock realized that his acidic words actually could hurt him, and even though _I’m sorry_ never was said, John felt it just the same. 

“Right...sorry,” John muttered and climbed up onto the bed. His hands brushed against Sherlock’s blanketed ankles and rested there. Just close enough to feel the sensation of heat and Sherlock’s toes flexed again under the dark blue covers. John’s knees made small popping noises as he crawled up the length of the bed as he eased his way closer. Every movement cataloged by the brilliant man who somehow thought that John was worthy enough to take something so precious. There was an intake of breath as John slid beside Sherlock, and they both froze. 

“Do you want to stop?”

Sherlock shook his head, although his expression spoke volumes that John wanted to explore with words and hugs. Pain in the lines of that exquisite face that made John want to find every single one of the people who had hurt this man and rip them apart limb from limb. But all desires for revenge and bloodshed were pushed away at the sensation of those elegant and nimble hands pressing at the center of John's back and pushing him down into a heated kiss. A wave of fire that made John dizzy with how much Sherlock had studied how their mouths fit together like some sort of snogging archaeologist. How their noses bumped in their urgency and _hell - John_ was already floating with just _this_. 

John needed to do something with his hands before he lost sense of the world entirely, so he reached up and felt the softness of ebony curls and _tugged_. The sound that Sherlock made was halfway between a growl and a sob. The type of sound that John had imagined in showers when he thrust into his own hand. His legs trembling as he tried his best not to be overheard by Sherlock, then a cascade of failed second and third dates before Mary, and then Sherlock once more. 

That circle of it all was almost too much. How all roads began and ended with Sherlock Holmes. The gravitational pull of him both allured and terrified John. His Achilles heel in human form, and now trembling under John’s steady touch. 

They pulled away for a moment to allow the heat to pool into their lower bellies. John somehow ended up draped on top of Sherlock. His hands still in the dark hair as their foreheads touched as John waited for Sherlock to tell him to stop. That this wasn’t what he wanted. That this was an experiment gone wrong and for John to go away and never return. John braced for it like the soldier he’d be no matter how many years passed. 

“It’s...so much…”

Sherlock gulped at the air and held John tighter in his arms. The tiniest droplets of sweat rubbing into John’s skin as the longer body squirmed underneath him. The lean muscles tensed as Sherlock tried to cope. John’s left hand made its way down to Sherlock’s jawline and lifted it up a fraction to see Sherlock's face more clearly. His growing erection twitched at the blown pupils that looked back in equal parts confusion and arousal. 

“Is it alright if I take over for a bit?”

Immediately John sensed the relief as Sherlock produced a weak smile. “Yes...please.”

Sherlock Holmes just pleaded for John Watson to take control. To assist in the turning off of that magnificent brain. This was the type of power that caused greater men to destroy lands and topple nations, and yet here John was on a stormy Wednesday night in a London flat being _given_ this. 

“May I see you?” John whispered, and Sherlock tentatively laid back down on the bed. His miles of arms stretched out wanton above his head as his eyes remained on John. The bedsheets had twisted a little in all the movement, but there was still a small amount of coverage right past Sherlock’s stunning v line. The slightest plumage of wispy curls peaked out to let John know that Sherlock was indeed naked. 

It was at that point that the room adjusted and the edge of a camera came into peripheral vision. Just a quiet reminder that this was not just the two of them in this private moment, but in an instant, Martin had been able to blink out of reality and kiss a trail of featherlight kisses from the bridge of Ben’s nose to delicate chin and then the neck that he had become so familiar with the night before. Then lower still to the middle of the chest and then the flat stomach. The quick noises of tickled hums as Ben closed his eyes and bit his bottom lip in reaction. 

“So lovely…” John muttered as he moved down a little more. His hands skittered down the planes of Sherlock’s sides and narrowed hips. “Like a bloody work of art.”

A startled moan left Sherlock’s mouth as John traveled to inner thighs. His head was now completely covered by sheets as he nibbled and sucked. The feeling of Sherlock’s toes as the curled against John’s pajama bottoms as John now was fully on his belly and he created little circles with the tip of his experienced tongue. 

John’s firm hands held Sherlock down as the flicks of his mouth and licks got longer and more confident. Now it was John who was the one to teach Sherlock something bold and different. The gasps and moans became more reckless as Sherlock began to buck. 

“Oh god, _John_ …”

Shit, that voice should be illegal. Sherlock should be forced to brandish a license to carry it around. His voice should be used to burn doors away to make their case connected break-ins an easier task. John chuckled to himself as he took hold of Sherlock’s left leg and hooked it over his right shoulder. Then placed his head between Sherlock's heated thighs and _sucked_. The surprised noise that came from above the sheets something that would live in John's memory until he died of old age in some tiny cottage in Southampton surrounded by beehives and Sherlock’s violin music. 

Sherlock’s right leg wrapped itself around the small of John’s back. Even with all of the new data, Sherlock remembered John’s dodgy left shoulder. John thanked him with a firmer pull and greeted with a word that the ever posh and well-schooled William Sherlock Scott Holmes had only uttered four other times in all of the years John had known him, but _never_ in this context. 

“ _Fuck_!” Sherlock cried out, and John’s erection begged to be more involved in this. John ground his cock into the mattress as Sherlock lifted up into the wet heat of John’s mouth. His body on autopilot as it keened and chased for the orgasm that gained so much speed. Part of John wanted to let Sherlock have some privacy and respect the idea that being seen like this would be embarrassing. _Too personal._ That there would be plenty of time and opportunities to see what a climax could do to that statuesque face and demeanor. To be the calming doctor to the needy patient writhing in his arms. 

Then a blast of frigid air invaded the sheets and Sherlock was forever changed. His face aglow with something so close to rapture that John’s heart might as well stopped cold. The paleness of Sherlock’s features now flushed pink on all of the razor edges as he whimpered. His muscles lost to the rhythm of urge and his mind nothing more than white noise and John’s name.

“I got you,” John soothed as he hoisted his way back up to those fantastic lips. “I’ve _always_ got you.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to John’s insistent tongue and Sherlock erupted. That last piece of the puzzle clicked into place to solve a level ten mystery, and just like every other time John was there to bask in the brilliance of Sherlock Holmes. For once John had been more than just a slightly less annoying face in the crowd. It was him that had caused Sherlock’s mind to go blissfully blank for just a flash. Eyes so foggy and unfocused as he felt Sherlock’s body roll with so much pleasure.

The seconds stretched into what could have been hours as they melted into each other. John’s cock finally accepted that this first time was only for the man now taking deep lungfuls of air as he slowly came back to himself. John envied Sherlock’s ability to do something as complex as breathing since he was fairly certain that he himself wasn’t capable of doing much more than stare down in amazement. 

“You okay?” John asked because apparently, he needed to say something incredibly stupid. However, Sherlock responded with a wheezy laugh that John had never heard. A post-coital giggle that existed in their lives now. 

“I don’t think…” Sherlock began and then groaned as John pressed a small kiss onto his sweaty brow. “...okay even _begins_ to cover what just happened.”

  
  
  



	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first sex scene has completed, but the potential issues have only just started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for so many comments and kudos. Sorry about the delay but dealing with some ongoing computer issues on my side. Here is the next chapter!

The brightness in the room magnified. The softness of the dark overtaken by all of the other sensations. Ben squinted in the light as the warmth, and it made him suddenly feel even more naked. Yet Martin was there and smiling at him as if he held the answers to life's mysteries. Ben exhaled a breath that he hadn't realized he had been holding, and there was a squeeze to his bare ankle from Martin's strong fingers.

"You might have just melted the lenses off of cameras three and four with that performance," Martin chuckled. "Now adjust your pants and enjoy all the cheers, you nutter."

Then the sound of catcalls and whistles invaded. There were even a few wipes from eyes as Ben looked around. Benedict felt a flush of heat hit his neck and ears as Martin pulled him up to a sitting position. His hair must have looked a horror the way that Liam rushed over and began to fuss with his curls. The giggle that Martin gave confirmed this completely.

"Sex hair suits you Ben," a stagehand bellowed. The laughter from the rest of the crew ricocheted through the set as Benedict eased his way off of the bed. The soft dark blue robe around himself swung so much like Sherlock’s dressing gown that it couldn’t have been a coincidence. His face must be positively glowing at this point, but he'd be able to argue that it was the heat of the scene. That wasn't actually a lie, either.

Benedict glanced over to Martin to commend his acting when he noticed Martin looking concerned. His brow furrowed in that special way it always did when he was trying to cut off an issue before it could begin. It was Steven and Mark huddled off in the corner that was catching Martin's attention. Steven sat in a chair as Mark leaned over and occasionally pointed at something on the screen. The two men were talking quietly to one another as they seemed to be reviewing the playback. Ben couldn't see the video from where he stood, but it made him wonder if there might have been a problem with something that made it needed to do the scene again.

Not that he minded that in principle. Shot sometimes had to be redone with no fault of anyone involved. A smudge on the camera lens or an unexpected noise just off-screen was just part of the business of film.

“Think we laid it on too thick?”

Ben flitted his eyes over to Martin who had moved to stand right next to him. He was still shirtless and Benedict could see the slightest flush of color on his chest. So it looked like he wasn’t the only one who was barely holding in his arousal.

“No,” Ben replied. His eyes fought to not stare at Martin’s sturdy shoulders. “If we did they would have cut in the middle of it. Made us just start from the beginning like usual.”

Martin licked his lips as he rubbed the back of his head with his hand. The familiar non-verbal cue that he didn’t agree, but also didn’t want to talk about it further at the moment. Then with a quick brush of his fingers against the small of Ben’s back, he headed off the set. More than likely he was heading to his dressing room to change and try his best not to overthink the scene. Ben knew that it was more possible for Martin to grow wings and circle the sun before he’d ever stop overthinking, but that wasn’t his job to pick apart the mind of Martin Freeman.

Then again, with all that had happened between them already, maybe that was his job now.

“Ben, a moment?”

Mark gestured him over towards where he and Steven had been looking at the playback. Steven gave a curt nod before getting to his feet and allowing Benedict to sit in his place.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Steven said before he walked over to what looked like a slightly frantic set dresser. In her hands was what appeared to be part of a broken picture frame.

Ben watched Steven disappear with the set dresser and then turned his gaze back to Mark Gatiss. He had never seen Mark severe for quite a while. He looked so much like Mycroft that Benedict wondered if the umbrella and three-piece suit might just fall out of the sky at any second.

“Something wrong?” Ben asked, and he already hated how fakely casual he sounded. “Did the scene not work for what was needed?”

Mark coughed back a laugh. “The scene was powerful and raw, and that’s our concern.”

This was not what Ben was expecting, and he tried not to smile too much. Martin and he had done wonderful work, and that was always great to hear.

“Our concern,” Mark continued, and Ben forced his face back to as neutral as he could muster. “Is that it was…”

Mark paused as if trying his best to use the proper words. That was alarming since _off_ _the cuff_ was practically built into Mark’s DNA.

“I don’t want to be in your or Martin’s business,” he continued. His voice so soft that Ben had to strain a bit to hear it. “But whatever you both are up to just be careful, all right? And don’t you give me that look...I’ve known you two long enough to know when the acting bleeds through from somewhere else. Frankly, I don’t want you to confirm or deny anything. Just be fucking careful, okay? The last thing we need is another incident of a relationship souring on the set, and the awkwardness it carries with it.”

Ben stared at Mark but didn’t say a word. There was no way that Martin and he could be that transparent, could they?

“I’ll see you both on Friday for the alleyway scene,” Mark muttered. “Get some rest.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi there Freebatchers,
> 
> I am sorry for my long time away. With events of the day and my other projects I needed to take a bit of time to slow down on this story, but as promised I have not abandoned it. This is a smaller chapter but I do hope that you like it. Please stay safe out there!

Martin was turning more and more into John Watson with each passing day, and that was a really bad path to go down. Especially when he only knew enough about medical and military data to at least look the part of the only man whom had made Sherlock Holmes notice him for more than a fleeting moment in time.

His knowledge base _had_ evolved. Martin was an actor who absorbed himself in his roles. Read and studied and asked open-ended questions to the best people available to him. People who would chuckle at his jokes as they gave him more information to help his characters come to life on the screen and that was good. However, Mark and Steven pulling Ben off to the side to talk about the Deflowering Sherlock scene, as everyone on set had called it, was _not_ good.

Then again, it’s not like he and Ben had really discussed anything that had already happened in much detail after that night on the couch. Martin grimaced, eyes narrowed as if trying to look contemplative would be enough to trick his brain into slowing down long enough to really do some _actual_ thinking for a change. For him to not race head first into this like he had with so many others like his real girlfriend, or all the others after her. 

Too bad that he can’t tell his heart to just not do that. It never fucking listened to him anyway. Instead, his heart imagined taking Benedict Cumberbatch on secluded picnics. It envisioned waking up to those lush lips and that astonishing jawline. Too late for him to slow the hell down now.

In situations like this he told himself lies about how he can handle being stupidly in love and still be cautious in his approach. To weigh out the positives and negatives before getting such cartoony hearts in his eyes that he walked face first into disaster. The disaster in question whose voice would more than likely kill him with the heat of those elongated vowels.

That was fine. He had a fairly good life, all things considered.

The groans of what might be part nervous breakdown may have appeared in his most recent orgasms. It was hard to distinguish the noises he made nowadays when in bed. Pornography wasn’t supposed to be this complicated, and yet Martin had spent more hours on the more popular sites reading comments than actually getting off. Like digitally flipping through the pages of Playboy for the articles, and that absolutely needed to be stopped. In general, he preferred the real thing, but it wasn’t as if he could just call Benedict up and request a shag. Or maybe he could?

Martin was way too out of practice for this.

The alleyway scene was set for tomorrow, and he needed to get some sleep. His erection disagreed, but he was able to ignore it. Pretend that the pain in his chest was due to last-minute heartburn, and not because he was in freefall. Hurtling towards the pavement into what was something so bright that it hurt Martin’s eyes in its shine.

Moriarty was right. It’s not the fall. It’s never the fall. It’s the landing.

Cold water helped to dull the pain more than anything else, so Martin turned on the tap and cupped his hands to collect it. The iciness already cleared the haze of too many questions and not enough answers. The splash to his face shook at his senses in ways that helped him see the bigger picture.

Ben wanted this. Ben wanted him. Martin read it in every movement that Ben made with his mouth, not to mention the words that came out of it. That Martin was not only allowed to touch, but was being asked to do so, and that did nothing to help. Instead, the realization almost teased him like some sort of existential childhood bully. Taunting him for his lunch money, and then still landing a solid punch even after Martin surrendered the cash.

On second thought, punches were easier to get over than falling in love.

There were cut and dry ways to mend bruised knuckles and cauterize gashes to stop the blood flow. Dr. John Watson knew about all of these methods. He had used them on the rolling hills of burning sand in Afghanistan, but this was a very different type of warfare. But, this was fine. This all was fine. It helped that they had already gotten over the more uncomfortable bits already, although in self-reflection he really should’ve said I love you first.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. He truly was getting too old for this, but fuck it. If Martin could deal with the likes of shooting his way through Marvel films and battling hostile alien takeovers during pub crawls then he’d find a way to seduce the trousers off of Benedict Cumberbatch.

Again.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another day on the set, and more moments of clarity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are more than halfway done with the story and the support, kudos and comments have been so wonderful! As always, please share with anyone who is interested in Freebatch and please stay safe out there, and love each other...

Running should be part of every contract Ben signed. Perhaps it already was. Somewhere in the smallest of print on a page somewhere in the back next to the section that swore him to never lose his cheekbones or to ever dye his hair that horrid bleach blonde color again. He supposed that was part of the reason he paid Billy so much. To deal with the strangeness of Ben being Dr. Strange along with all of the other demands made that Ben couldn’t possibly do without him.

The alleyway was much longer than either he or Martin had expected. It was possible that Mark and Steven had it specially built to accommodate the shoot. The trash bins and bricks were all placed as artistically as a painting, and just as expensive. 

Cameras captured their movements in sharp shadows, with no voice of Steven at all to tell them to do anything but just let the scene play out in all its glory. The ends of Sherlock’s coat occasionally brushed against the edges of John’s stomach and wrists as they both raced towards danger like the madmen they undoubtedly were. 

“Sherlock...wait!”

And as if by some magical power Sherlock instantly stopped. Muscles not quite as prepared as the rest of him as they froze at the call of a man behind him. Already there was an additional sting of annoyance. The criminal had only been at most ten meters away, and now he was shrinking in the enveloping darkness of the city.

“Why in the hell did you - “ Sherlock began, but John had already pressed his back against a dirt-encrusted wall with his much more compacted body. The same left hand that only three days ago had taken him apart in their sitting room now covered Sherlock’s mouth to stop Sherlock from getting them killed for what was getting to be _way_ too huge of a number. 

John was an expert on how to say exactly what was needed with a glance or a glare, and the expression that now looked up at Sherlock right now said _For the love of God, shut the fuck up._ And so Sherlock did because he was a moth to the all-consuming flame known as John Watson, and Sherlock was both enraged and transfixed by the power of what a mind palace became when another person began to exist within its halls. 

It had probably only been seconds that they stood there, with Sherlock pinned and John holding him still. The explosion of sounds near the opening of the alleyway met their ears. An ambush of what bullets hitting empty space and bits of brick instead of flesh and bones made Sherlock yell in the curve of John’s palm. The ghost of that intermittent tremor in John’s otherwise steady fingers was all that Sherlock needed to know that John was just as human as himself. 

A messy ambush, but an ambush nevertheless. Dust and police sirens filled the weighted air as John pulled away to do more than likely something practical and necessary and fuck if all of that actually mattered right now. Not when either of them could have been torn apart in the thrill of a chase. Sherlock grabbed at John’s coat as if it were some oddly shaped shock blanket and yanked him back towards his chest. The familiar taste of hastily eaten chocolate digestives clung to the edge of John’s lips as Sherlock kissed him, and John only struggled for a moment before he gave in.

They didn’t _do_ things like this. Snog in filthy back alleys with the smell of rubbish and shrapnel fighting for first place in the linings of their nostrils, but they did tonight. Kissed as if they didn’t do so would be what finally killed them off before the criminals of London had the chance. Kissed like the first time they had let themselves know that this was real and whole and painfully temporary, yet they couldn’t stop. John exhaled into Sherlock’s open mouth what must have been a thousand promises. All individually wrapped up in tiny carbon dioxides that resembled stars, and Sherlock gulped them down because he required that exact kind of sustenance. Nutrients that would stop him from crumbling into the cracks of the cobblestone under their feet.

“John? Sherlock? Are you two all - “

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard was a very good investigator, but even an idiot like Anderson would have known that, yes both John and Sherlock were all right. Better than all right, other than the fact this situation would give just _giggling_ at a crime scene a run for its money. 

“Shit,” John whispered as he let go of Sherlock. His eyes lingering on Sherlock’s own worried face before turning his attention to Greg. His body still shielded Sherlock’s as he protected him from a different type of assault. 

The tension of the two men as they simply stared at each other was the type of nuance that Sherlock wanted to study for days. Slice into thin pieces and fit underneath a microscope until each layer was truly explored and documented.

It was Lestrade who buckled first because he had less to lose in this. Because beyond the rigid exterior was a decent man who realized the power of what he witnessed, but saw no reason to give it a name. 

“Stay here for about three minutes,” he said, his voice the quietest that Sherlock had ever heard. “Then double back the way you came. There’ll be a car to take you back to Baker Street. No one will be allowed to talk to or follow you. Understand?”

John nodded because apparently Sherlock had forgotten how to move.

“Right,” Greg said, and the smallest of smiles flitted across his lips before he muscled it back into a neutral expression once more. “See you two later on, yeah?”

Lestrade didn’t wait for an answer before turning back the way he came and muttering something Sherlock couldn’t hear into his mobile phone. The lights of the alleyway brightened and the cameras were again in full view. In the brighter setting, Ben could see Martin looking up at him. His mouth wording something that may or may not have been _“Fantastic”_ as the set opened up into so many people as they began to pick up pieces of the scene and someone steered Martin away towards the dressing rooms. Benedict was ushered in the opposite direction to hair and makeup with various pats on the backs and smiles from the crew and staff and Ben felt hazy and giddy at the same time. 

It was only when he sat down to have his flattened curls taken care of that he felt the small piece of paper in his coat pocket. The handwriting he’d recognize anywhere, even if he hadn’t just been making out with the person who wrote them. 

_I miss you. My place, tonight after 8. If you can._


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A first true night together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again all Freebatchers,
> 
> Here is the chapter that has me again warning about that rating. If you want to skip it, completely understand. You are able to see a small summary of the events in the end notes. For everyone who has been so kind and loving with comments, support and kudos, thank you so much. I hope that I have done good by our ship with this chapter. As always, comments, kudos and constructive criticism is what feeds the creative fire. 
> 
> Tad<3

The panic only began to set in for Martin when 8:00 pm came and went. There are just so many times that checking on things around an overly large house became pacing instead. It wasn’t even that exciting type of pacing that Martin occasionally did when he had definitely gotten the part and Mike was just going over the finer details. That excruciating knot in his stomach relaxed into more manageable nerves.

This unfortunately was not an audition. This was the potentiality of sex with Benedict Cumberbatch. 

Benedict. Fucking. Cumberbatch.

With those hypnotic eyes and those relentless cheekbones. The man who tackled both Hamlet and Disney with a sultry swagger that had all sexes swooning in their seats. Lesser people might be jealous of this gift, but why should Martin be one of them? Martin was attractive. Granted, in more of the James Cagney sense than Cary Grant. More rough than rugged. More vinegar than honey. The focal lens of cameras caught all the imperfections like a magnifying glass, which was fine because it made people pause to figure him out. How a short and tempered ex-rugby player became a leading man when there were pristine anomalies like Benedict just a few doors down. 

The knock on the door took him away from his literal back and forth. A glance at the wall clock showed 8:18 pm, which was enough time for this to be about running late instead of Ben changing his mind, and then decided that going through with this was the only polite thing to do. Martin quickly wondered if that’s what Ben did when he was forced to pick a lane. Go for politeness instead of anything else because he was raised by proper British parents who taught him proper social normalities that came with...dating? Is that what they were doing now? 

“Sorry. I _swear_ this me always being late isn’t because of you.”

Benedict wore jeans and a tight black shirt that seemed to be made to be torn off. With Martin’s teeth if he had a say in it, and maybe he would tonight. Either way, Martin smiled and invited Ben over the threshold. Like he had done many times before, but not like this. Not with there being the type of intentions that came with the small overnight bag slung over Ben’s right shoulder. 

“Drink?”

“I’m fine,” Ben answered, dropping the bag near the couch and turning back to face Martin. His darkened hair still had the suggestion of curls within them. Remnants of Sherlock Holmes hovering around Ben’s head like a midnight thunderstorm and Martin was momentarily struck silent. Ben stared back, equally transfixed. 

“Should we...talk first or…”

The last words of Ben’s sentence never were said, but Martin knew what they were anyway. Then Martin licked his lips as he took a couple of cursory steps closer. Ben hadn’t moved, but he didn’t have to. He’d always had a gift to let Martin know what he needed with just a small shift in his eye line or tilt of his head. Ben did both, and Martin reached out. The soft slip of his fingers as they caressed Ben’s larger hand. The swipe of Martin’s thumb against Ben’s wrist, as if taking his pulse. 

That same crackle of uncertainty hit Martin’s eardrums. It felt wet and raw, and it felt so much like drowning if he didn’t break through the surface. “Do you _want_ to talk first?”

Ben’s pulse point gained speed. The shake of his bowed head barely perceived, but Martin caught that too. The same way that he witnessed Ben's lips curve up into a smile as he said “God, no.”

Martin tilted up his chin and tasted Ben’s mouth and this time there was no pause. Instead, there was a need to fill and be filled. To touch and hold and grab until they both were panting and sweating around bed sheets and too many god damned pillows. 

“Good,” Martin grunted, during one of the times he could pull away for long enough to say random words. “Bed,” he continued, “First door. Right side.”

It was a wonderful thing that Ben understood overly aroused caveman, because he moved swiftly towards the correct bedroom, with Martin trailing behind. Why did even in real life was John always chasing after Sherlock? It had to be those god damned legs. Longer than Shakeperian soliloquies and the foggy days of London.

Martin’s bedroom was soft and comfortable, with a bed that was easy to fall asleep in and sturdy for doing more active things. The mattress was insanely expensive. He justified it with better movie and television roles and occasional nightcaps. However tonight, for once he was pleased to be able to have a new partner in it. Ben’s appreciative sigh as he fell on top of the downy blankets was thick and honeyed and belonged on the top of ice cream sundaes and Martin felt a rush of sweetness along with the heat. 

Ben had somehow taken off his shoes and socks when Martin hadn’t noticed because Ben’s long feet were slipping under the covers, but Martin needed to stop him from taking off anything else. He rushed forward and cupped Benedict’s face in the palm of his hands and kissed him. Ben groaned as his eyelids closed and opened his mouth for Martin to explore, and Martin did. Steady nips to that perfect cupid’s bow that caused small hot puffs of air to land on Martin’s nose and cheeks as Ben exhaled. 

Then another gasp as Martin pulled Ben’s shirt up to expose his pale skin underneath. The light ripple of muscle there was soft like velvet and wrinkled under Martin’s touch as he rubbed Ben’s bare stomach. The small wisps of chest hair as Martin moved his right hand higher. His left hand busy unbuttoning and unzipping first his jeans and then moving to Ben’s.

“Didn’t realize multitasking was such a talent of yours,” Ben chuckled, then lifted his hips to help with pulling his pants and boxer shorts down. “What _else_ can those hands do at the same time?”

“You’re about to find out.”

A purr of liquid seduction left Ben at Martin’s words, and _yes_. That was definitely an utterance that needed to be heard once more. Bottled up and stored in Marin’s bathroom cupboard and splashed on his face after his morning shave. Martin placed his right hand on Ben’s hip to keep him from thrusting too much and began to explore Ben with every part of his tongue. A hint of salt in the places that counted. Those rose budded nipples. That jutting collarbone. That hidden slice of softness underneath Benedict’s chin.

“You're _trying_ to drive me mad, aren’t you?” Ben huffed out. His hands flew into what was left of his curls and pulled. “Death by fucking foreplay...Martin Freeman the prime sus- “

Ben groaned out the rest of his sentence, and Martin wrapping a hand around Ben’s cock would be the major reason why. Stuttered his mind like an old rusty model T-Ford, and Martin savored the sound. Hardness and heat and Ben arched his back at the first circle of Martin’s index finger against his pucker hole. Already wet from lubrication from the drawer in the side table. 

“We’ll go at your pace,” Martin whispered. His other hand already slicked and jerking himself as slowly as he could.

Ben hummed in response as he grabbed at his own erection. His pace was quicker and somewhat more frantic. Eyes the color of the sun rising in the dawn. Sherlockian curls transformed into the more familiar rippling waves of Ben once more. 

He must have been staring too much because Ben began to stare back. One of his elegant hands at the base of his cock, while the other hand turned over onto the bedspread, palm now up in invitation. And Martin took it. Intertwined their fingers and squeezed.

“Are you all right?” Ben asked. Almost as if he had been asking Martin about the weather, or how he planned to spend the next weekend. The relaxation of it reminded Martin of days on the set where Ben asked him the same question after difficult nights, and how Martin’s reply was forever a game of misdirection. 

But not tonight.

“Yes,” Martin muttered. “I finally am.”

Benedict’s inhalation of breath might as well have been an echo of his own. Another feeling to place on the backburner when they better handle the ramifications of what Martin realized out loud. As for now, Martin eased the moment by one of his thumb pads caressing the inside of Ben’s palm. The other thumb swept up the underside of Benedict’s testicles in a pattern of a metronome, and Benedict twitched in a satisfying rhythm. As for the moon, it was playing tricks with the light, because Ben’s creamy skin seemed to be bathed in a glow. The dapple of moles akin to twinkling stars and Martin was dissecting the universe. 

“Sorry about all the false starts,” Martin sighed. “And here I am talking about _you_ setting the pace while my slow arse is taking a century, yeah?”

Benedict smirked, and then tilted his chin up. A silent sign for a kiss and Martin gave him one that was meant to linger. A smooth slide of tongues, lips, and metered breaths from both of them. 

“If a century is what’s required,” Ben whispered back. “Then I’ll just have to lengthen my holiday after season five is all. We deserve this.”

There was that ache again in Martin’s ribcage. Between ribs two and three on the right side, but it was easier to recognize this time around. It’s what occurred when the heart re-sets. To give itself another try at the lunacy of love, and the man currently underneath him was clearly as insane as himself.

Martin steadied his elbows and pushed his index finger inside, and Ben spread both his knees and mouth wider. His larger hands came to rest in that solid spot between Martin’s shoulder blades. Then angled his hips to open up more. 

Ben was so warm and wet as he slowly relaxed. The pressure of two fingers became less and less until the heel of Martin’s left hand was fully pressed up against tightening balls. The thrill of Martin’s fingers disappear into delicate heat, pulled back out, and then thrust back again and again. 

“Oh, god….yes,” Benedict slurred. His body pushing against Martin with a silky resistance. His cock laid rigid on his belly and the tip wet with want. 

“Open your eyes,” Martin said, licking his lips for what must have been the hundredth time. “Need to see those remarkable eyes.”

Ben obliged, but just barely. His gaze was silver now, with streaks of icy blue as they tried to hide behind his thick eyelashes. A twist of Martin’s finger was all that was needed for Ben’s eyes to widen in what must have been a solid push of his prostate. The deep bellow of his voice had Martin’s toes curl. 

“You’re a monster,” Benedict moaned out loud and very breathless. “And this is my private heaven and hell, isn’t it? To be trapped on the brink of orgasm by that same middle finger flicked off to every fucking camera from New Zealand to Hollywood.”

Martin giggled, and then flicked his fingers for the second time. A come hither curve of knuckles that had Ben tremble around him, bucking up towards the ceiling as his body craved more of what was being so gloriously given. Martin needed to stay here. Have his fingerprints somehow survive inside of Benedict for the next thousand years, and of course, that was painfully sentimental. A dream that never could be turned into a reality, but Martin was always a dreamer at the end of the day. 

Within a quick move, Martin’s left hand pulled away, and Ben grabbed at it and yanked the hand up to his own face to kiss each and every one of those slippery fingers. Martin may or may not have growled at that. The condom rolled on within a moment, and then his cock pushed against the ring of loosened muscle to slide in with a cry in duet. 

Then Martin stilled because he felt like he was being pulled into a galaxy that held secrets and promises and they all were calling out to him at once. The flashing brightness the same shades of Benedict’s hair and eyes and then the choked out moan that a person only heard when you shattered the one you love from the inside out. Slowly and deliberately he began to swivel his hips. The jostling firm and purposeful and Ben’s waves bounced at the movement. His bottom lip bitten as he uttered out half-swallowed phrases. His magnificent hands clawed at every piece of Martin that he could grab a hold of, as if he let go he might melt into nothingness. 

And perhaps this was true. They might die if they stopped racing towards the impending cliff. Martin could only do what his body and Ben demanded now. To fuck until the inevitable conclusion, and then pick up any parts that still stayed mostly intact. 

Then with a hush, then a cry out Ben’s back arched like a crescent moon. The fluttering walls of his orgasm a series of violin strings and Martin, the sturdy bow that made him sing. And because Martin would follow Benedict anywhere, his climax crashed into him the force that was almost beyond human. 

They breathed, in spite of themselves. Martin took lungfuls of air that seemed too cold for the furnace of heat their bodies had created. Benedict hissed as Martin pulled out. The apology for the sound was written all over his face, but Martin the worry lines away. The _I love you_ in each of brush his mouth and Ben repeated it back with every sigh.

The ringing phone was the next thing Martin remembered as he opened his eyes. For a horrifying moment, he had feared that the night had been an out of control fantasy, but the silhouette of Ben was there. Slightly illuminated by the phone and Martin exhaled. He reached over Ben’s sleeping form to grab at the phone.

“Hello?” he mumbled, and Benedict stirred but his eyes stayed closed. 

“Martin? Is that you?”

Suddenly Martin was way more awake then he was moments before. 

“Sophie? Shit...sorry, I thought that this was my - “

“Is Benedict with you?”

The question was sweet and kind, and so was the lovely woman who asked it. Hearing her voice made what he and Ben had just done that more real, and Martin struggled as to what to say to make this even slightly all right.

“Sophie, I’m not sure if Ben told you what we were...tonight was…”

“Martin sweetheart, there’s nothing for you to explain. I assume that he’s asleep?”

Martin blinked at the directness and cleared his throat. “Yes, did you want to speak to him?”

“Oh goodness no. It’s been ages since he’s gotten a decent night’s sleep,” Sophie sighed. “Besides, it might be better that you be the one to tell him. Have you read the series finale yet? Should have been mailed earlier this week. Ben’s came in today, and he always wants me to read it first.”

Martin frowned at the information. “No, I haven’t gotten it yet. It goes to my agent Mike first. Why? Is there a problem with the script?”

There was silence on the other end of the line, and Martin’s blood ran cold.

“Yes,” Sophie finally answered, and for the first time in all the time Martin had known her, she sounded heartbroken. “Gatiss and Moffat have decided to have the series end in a way I never expected. Near the end of the final episode...Sherlock dies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary for those who those who do not wish to read this explicit chapter:
> 
> Ben comes over to Martin's house and they make love. Afterwards Sophie calls up and ends up speaking to Martin. She tells him that Sherlock is going to die in the series finale.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin and Benedict deal with the alarming new script plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my fellow Freebatchers!
> 
> Thank you again for all of your patience regarding the story. This is a short chapter, but the last stretch of the book is going to get pretty intense. I hope to be able to get the next chapter updated by the end of next week. Your comment and kudos have been so wonderful. And a very happy birthday to half of this ship, Benedict Cumberbatch. <3

A long time ago in an interview for a publicity tour, Ben was asked what his favorite color was. It was a quaint enough question. Almost wholesome among the more flirty questions that interviewers lobbed softly at him in the grinding days of promotion. He had by instinct always said  _ “Blue” _ , which wasn’t a lie. He adored the color with all it’s various shades and hues. However, in times like this, when waking up in warmth and something that definitely smelled of morning dew, his mind always went to a more golden color.

The radiance and shimmer of it that glimmered in the small bit of sunlight that crept through parted honey brown curtains in a bedroom that belonged to Martin. Each piece of furniture and drop of paint appeared designed to keep Martin okay in this maddening world, and Ben was presently at its center. Covered in a duvet and fluffed up pillows and what must be the shadows of kisses. Left there to remind Benedict that Martin had been there the night before, and eventually would return. Which made sense, since this was Martin’s house after all. 

Ben stretched his arms over his head and yawned. The small popping sounds that came after falling asleep without exactly being prepared for it echoed in the large room. Then he rubbed his eyes to help jump-start his mind, and now very aware that he was still  _ very _ naked under the sheets. As if he was some sort of lecherous male concubine waiting to be ravished once more by his long-hidden lover.

Yet there was no hiding, because Benedict had a wife whose heart was as open as her mind, and he made a small mental note to give that same wife a splendid weekend on the first opportunity. Champagne with French names that would roll off of her tongue like fresh mountain streams and Ben would lean in to listen even more. 

“Oh, splendid then. So, I didn’t kill you off last night with that shag.”

Martin was smiling at Ben from the bedroom door in that way that wasn’t fair for Benedict this early in the morning. Especially when Martin decided that red underpants was what he was going to walk around the place in. Ben lifted himself into a sitting position and just then caught the smell of fresh coffee and pancakes. He breathed in as Martin slid beside him. His blue eyes looking at him with such affection that Ben had no other choice but to kiss him. The surprised hum from Martin’s lips changing to something slightly more aroused. 

“And a very good morning it is indeed,” Martin said as he pulled away. A small patch of pink appeared on the edge of his ears as he settled down between Ben’s legs and placed a few quick pecks in the middle of Ben’s chest. The rustle of the bedsheets blended in the sounds of birds right outside of the open window. Postcards never looked this picturesque. 

Ben sighed into the crispness of the morning. The coolness of the room at odds with the way Martin’s heated body slotted with him so well, and perhaps this was definitely the kind of start to the day that Ben could get used to very quickly. 

“You sleep well, then?” Martin asked when he lifted up his chin to meet Ben’s gaze. His eyes soft and inviting and god how Ben loved this man. To a frightening level that might involve soppy poetry and slaying dragons. 

“I don’t firmly recall falling asleep, so yes...I suppose so.”

Martin shuffled up further so that he was on top of Ben properly now. His face was so close that Ben could just make out the true blueness of his eyes. A sight that only the privileged were able to kiss Martin Freeman. Then there was a sadness that seemed to set into Martin’s laugh lines, and Ben stilled in his arms.

“What’s the matter?”

Martin tilted his head as if making sure he wanted to say what he needed to say. It was a well-practiced motion that Ben saw way too often. 

“Sophie called last night,” Martin began. “I answered your phone by mistake and she told me that she had just read the last script of  _ Sherlock _ .” He paused to put a slightly sweating palm on Ben’s right thigh, his face still very strained. 

“And it’s not the best of endings, I assume?”

The palm began to rub slow and tentative circles. As if it was grounding Martin and giving him more time to process the last eight hours. Ben wondered if Martin had been able to fall back asleep after hearing from Sophie. More than likely not. 

“No,” Martin replied. “Sherlock...is killed by Harrison. John finds him too late and…”

Martin stops and swallows hard. His lips slightly wet, and Ben doesn’t expect him to continue because it hurts somewhere that Ben isn’t able to reach. Instead, Ben sat up even more on the bed. 

“Do you have a copy of the script?”

Within a few minutes, Ben was sitting much like Sherlock would do, but with subtle differences. Pages of dialogue and stage directions surrounded him instead of photos of bodies in long destroyed crime scenes. A plate of half-eaten pancakes and eggs just off to the side with one fork for them to share as Benedict read. Black rimmed eyeglasses sat squarely on his nose as he watched the detective slowly die alone in a dirty room. 

“We can tell Mark and Steven that we refuse to do this,” Martin said from the foot of the bed. “They can’t  _ do _ this to John again, Ben. He’s...watched Sherlock die so many times before…”

Ben peered up from the script to Martin’s face, and he wanted to tell him that this was a simple fix. That with a few sit down meetings and some common sense that Sherlock and John would have the happy ending that they deserved, but he knew that it was way more complicated than that. 

“Tomorrow, we’ll try to talk to Mark first,” Ben sighed. “And go from there.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before Mark is spoken to, both Ben and Martin need to make it through the next scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long delay. This story isn't abandoned and actually have been stretched out a bit once I get the outline reconfigured. Kudos and comments are always amazing. Thank you again for reading.

Sherlock never needed many _actual_ rooms in his mind palace. There was more of an urgency to keep the space as clear and open as possible. It allowed the room needed for him to breathe more fully, and to walk around. His long arms spread out into the shape of whatever deity he felt warranted the visual of what it meant to be truly within his own brain. 

Sometimes a version of John was in there too, or if Sherlock’s subconscious was in a particularly masochistic mood - Mycroft. Today it was only John, who momentarily sat in what was a perfect imitation of the sitting room. The ghost of his laugh still hung at the corners of his mouth at Rosie as she tried to play what Sherlock knew to be Beethoven’s 5th on her toy Glockenspiel. John’s continued amusement at the shortened name _glocky_ had caused Sherlock something akin to mental anguish, but even he had to admit in hours when it was just Rosie and himself in the flat that her love for the instrument was adorable. 

“You’re in here a lot lately,” mind palace John said. His eyes still on Rosie but words directed to Sherlock, who watched from the hallway. 

“It’s easier to talk to you here,” Sherlock whispered. Rosie happily squealed when she heard Sherlock’s voice. 

Within an instance, Sherlock’s attention was pulled to her. Her chubby fingers wrapped tightly around the glockenspiel drumsticks as she giggled. The familiar rhythm of the symphony - if not all of the notes - was definitely there. Her honey-blonde hair shimmered in the sunlight coming from the window. John sighed as he stood up from the couch.

“That’s only true because you control everything that is thought and felt here,” John replied. “I’m just a mirror of your hopes and fears with John.”

The light coming from the window turned darker as night suddenly fell. John sighed again.

"Seems like a proper time for Rosie to leave, don't you think?"

The scene froze in place as the cameras pulled away to allow a young woman to slip into the scene. One of the twins - Bella, as Ben was fairly sure - was picked up and ushered out. Mark whispered something, and then another pause. Sherlock stared at the spot where Rosie once was. The next words filled with a reverence that Sherlock didn’t know his voice was capable of displaying in any way.

“Even in my mind, you always protect her.”

John tilted his head down and huffed out a breath. Always a starting point for Sherlock to get a proper telling off. He probably deserved it.

“You’re an idiot,” John replied, looking back at him. “Since again, I’m a product of what you make me. Which means that you are the one protecting - “

“I love you.”

John froze in place. The midnight blue of his eyes clearer from where Sherlock was standing than normal. Sherlock usually saw that particular hue when John was close enough to kiss. His face tilted up towards his in a powerful need to either touch or admonish. The passion there regardless.

“You should tell that to him,” John muttered. “He tells you all of the time. Whispers it here - “

Martin placed a warm hand on the nape of Ben’s neck. The thumb directly on Ben’s pulse point and it took all of Ben’s inner control not to moan. Somewhere inside of Benedict’s own mind palace was repeating on a loop that this was not what the script said at all. John was supposed to touch Sherlock’s right wrist with his left. _Hell to the script_. This was better. Martin always made the right changes. 

“ - and here,” John continued as he moved his hand slowly up into the side of Sherlock’s face. The tips of fingers teasing the nearest ringlets of curls as this time Sherlock did release a shaky moan. The type of noise that became more commonplace in his brain than he ever thought. Sherlock should feel shocked at this. That both John’s could do this to his inner workings. Twist him inside out whether in real life or some sort of internal fantasy. 

“You should tell him,” John repeated. The tone was so delicate that it might break if not handled with the care that only a doctor could give it. “He’s right there...in his chair. Pretending to work on that silly blog...but you know he’s watching you. Needing you to say it back.”

A shadow shaped very much like Mark moved into Ben’s sight. His hand motioning to slow down the moment. Let the camera take the silence, and Ben agreed. The heat of Martin’s touch carried memories of last night that had Benedict fighting his lungs to continue to function. The exhale of breath that finally broke through rustled Martin’s silvery hair. 

“And what if I can’t say it back?” Sherlock whispered. His voice teetering on the edge of heartbreak that didn’t belong here. And yet it had somehow penetrated this fortress of logic and reason to bury Sherlock in a grave of sentimentality. 

John pulled away, and at once the sitting room inside the palace grew immensely cold. So frigid that if Sherlock dared to exhale again he would see the clouds of condensation. Sherlock instead closed his eyes and willed himself to make it stop. The burn of tears was just at the brim of his eyelids, and if he held onto them long enough then maybe he'd be consumed from the inside out. Catch fire and then there would be nothing left this time for John to mourn. 

“And done,” Mark’s voice called out. “Excellent as always, you two. Break until 2:30 pm.”

Ben opened his eyes to the warmth of Martin’s hand again. This time glancing up at him as if he had just watched Benedict gulp down a bottle of poison. 

“You ok?” 

Ben grunted something that at least attempted to be the words ‘ _Of course_.’ However, Martin already was preparing to say just the right thing. That talking to Mark was important, but it could wait for another day if they needed it. Protecting Benedict's feelings without even needing to ask if he was doing that the proper way because it always was. 

“No…” Ben muttered back. “It’s best to get everything out in the open sooner than later?”

Martin gave a nod of solidarity and followed Ben towards Mark’s office. 


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin and Benedict try to talk to Mark. The emphasis on the word....try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Freebatchers!
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience. This was a hard chapter to get finished but hopefully the wait was worth it. I should be getting the next chapter up by next Friday with any luck. As always kudos, comments and fuzzy virtual hugs are always wonderful.

Martin had no problem with secrets. They protected the people and things that mattered most, like his children and what was left of his heart. All contained in a chrysalis made of the strongest metals that existed, and after he grabbed the role of Everett Ross, he added  vibranium as an additional layer. Even if it wasn’t real, it’s symbolism was.

John Watson was a symbol too. How brutal strength could wear a fuzzy jumper. Hands fit to heal and to kill, and for once it was the army doctor that needed to be shielded from what was just around the corner. This time though, the grave would absolutely hold the body of Sherlock Holmes.

All at once Ben and his plan to talk to Mark alone about the death of Sherlock seemed incredibly stupid.The type of thing that should have been dismissed at the frst suggestion, yet here they both sat in the office of Mark Gatiss. Both of them terrified at - not if - but how much this conversation would go tits up. 

Granted, they were well known actors who had prominent careers and fairly good reputations Well,  _ Benedic _ t had a fairly good reputation. Martin was an angry hobbit who occasionally pushed out enough charm to kiss equally charming leading women. Mark had left them alone to refresh his coffee, although Martin was half convinced that this was an outright lie. Much like Mycroft he wondered if Mark had some sort of cameras hidden away to record them as they twitched and fidgeted in the high back chairs. 

“You look like you’re about to be sick,” Martin whispered, and Ben’s throat made a strangled sound. The type of noise that happened when you had no idea what was behind a closed office door, but still planned on going through it anyway. 

“No...more likely to just go very polite and excuse myself to jump out of the window,” Ben whispered back.

Martin giggled at that, which was helpful. Leave it to Ben to toss out a joke at precisely the right moment. Before Martin could respond back with something equally as witty, Mark had reentered the room with fresh coffee in his mug, closed the door, and sat down behind his desk. Mark looked as he always did. Friendly in that slightly suspicious way that kept all of the attention on him at all times. 

“So,” Mark said after a sip of his coffee. “Which one of you went for it first?”

Martin felt his head tilt in the kind of baffled way that would have made Ben laugh if he had been looking at him right now. However, even though they sat much too close together for such a large office, Martin knew that Benedict was also giving Mark a bewildered stare. 

“Sorry?”

At least Ben had been able to muster up enough of a voice to speak. Mark closed his eyes and sighed very loudly. Again, it was if Mycroft Holmes had taken over Mark’s body in some weird possession scene. 

“You’re fucking each other... _ obviously _ . Just trying to figure out who actually made the first move towards this god damned insanity. You?” Mark waved an inpatient hand at Ben, who looked like he might burn with as pink as his face got. “Or you?”

Mark’s sharp eyes focused on Martin next, and yes, death right now would be a welcomed relief. However Martin was never the type to ever back down from a fight. Especially when his heart was involved. 

“Do all of the sordid details really matter?” Martin asked, and beside him Ben groaned. Martin didn’t care though. If tact in this discussion was going to be thrown out of within the first couple of minutes, then so be it. 

The corner of Mark’s mouth twitched as he tried not to smile. “No, not really, but if I’m going to have to deal with the ridiculous amount of press that would surround a bombshell like this, I’d like to start getting my weapons out early.”

“No weapons or explanations needed,” Ben offered, and Martin turned over to look at Ben fully this time. Noted how relaxed he looked as their affair was so easily chatted about. Something to definitely come back to later with Ben privately. “Let people speculate. It’s not like a good number of the fans have thought we’ve been platonic.”

Mark sighed again. His index and thumb pinched the bridge of his nose and may have mumbled a small prayer. “So your solution was to do what exactly, then? Prove them right?”

A hot bubble of anger was just underneath the first and second layers of Martin’s skin. A fierce protectiveness to defend Ben’s honor. His own be damned at the moment. 

“It just happened, all right? Shit happened, and we’re dealing with it day by day, and we can more than keep it under wraps. That’s what we want to do anyway.”

Martin turned to Ben to get agreement in this statement, which in hindsight probably should have been something they had discussed beforehand. The sudden flicker of a frown from Ben’s lips confirmed this. Perhaps there were a  _ few _ things to discuss later today then.

“The more pressing issue,” Martin went on, brushing off the snort of disbelief that had just come from Mark. “Is the last episode script.”

It was there that Martin paused in the hopes that Benedict would take over. It was the usual thing. The back and forth of their approach at talking to Mark or Steven in situations like this. Martin would get the ball rolling and Ben would keep it on the best possible course towards the same goal. This time though, there was silence.

“I’m sure that the ending came as a shock,” Mark muttered. “Sherlock dying for good took a very long time for us to decide on.” 

Ben sighed as he leaned forward in his chair, and Martin held his breath. 

“Do you also want John to die as well?”

Mark gaped at Benedict. Mouth slightly open at the question. 

“What? No, why in the hell would - “

“Because as I see it,” Ben continued, cutting Mark off. “If John has to watch Sherlock die one more time that will be the end of him. It’ll be too much to bear. He’d stay alive for Rosie, of course. Because he loves her and sees it as his duty to raise her, but once she became an adult, he would follow Sherlock.”

Mark slowly turned his gaze back to Martin, as if wanting some confirmation of this. 

Martin blinked a few times as he tried to wrap his head around the likely conclusion. In his mind he saw John sitting on the bad he shared with Sherlock. His hair now pure silver and holding a familiar gun. Rosie had just been dropped off at the University of her dreams, and John could still feel the warmth of her last hug as she whispered how much she loved him.”

“Martin?” Mark prompted.

“Ben is right,” Martin replied. His words moved at a slower pace than he had wanted them to, but he still pressed on. The sensation of throwing up must have telepathically passed from Ben to himself, because now he stomach gave a sick swirl. “You and Steven need to fucking reconsider...or…”

There was no place to finish off that sentence that would make this end well, and all three men in the room knew it. They all seemed to be absorbing the tenseness in the room as if it was carbon monoxide, and each of them slowly dying under its presence. 

“This wasn’t what any of us really wanted,” Mark finally said, and there was something slightly pleading in his tone. As if trying to will Martin and Ben to understand. “Steven and I...we love John and Sherlock, even if at times it doesn’t seem that way.”

“There’s a caveat in that,” Benedict mumbled, and again he adjusted himself in his seat. Martin longed to touch him, but stayed as still as he could. “So what is it, Mark? If anyone deserves to know, it’s the two of us.”

Martin reached out and lightly brushed his hand against Ben’s and gave a small exhale when Ben took a hold of it and squeezed. Mark rubbed at the side of his face for a moment. 

"You both must try to understand," Mark said softly as he looked from Ben and then to Martin. "Sherlock and John have always danced with death in one way or another. It’s a painful end, but one that Steven and I believe was the inevitable conclusion of the story. John began his journey alone, and must end it alone as well. A full circle of sorts."

Ben stood up first and Martin mirrored his movements. Mark stood up as well and tried to speak, but Ben had already left the office in a few short strides and slammed it hard behind him. 

"I'm sorry," Mark said, and the tenderness in the apology made Martin even more angry at the wrongness of it all. "I wish that it could have come to a different conclusion."

Martin fought back a slew of sarcastic barbs as he left the office as well. The only thing in his mind was to find Benedict and the way to somehow make it through the rest of the season together. 


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Benedict runs, Martin always follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you always dear Freebatchers for staying with the story. It has been changed from 25 to 30 chapters in total because my outline changed and at heart I am a long winded nutter. A special shout out to 7PercentSolution and @Holmes84Sophb for cheering this chapter on, and to everyone else for such support and love for my little Freebatch tale. I do understand that Real Person Fiction isn't everyone's cup of tea, but thank you for giving it a chance. I have tried my best to make the story as loving and respectful as possible. 
> 
> Much love, and I hope you enjoy the chapter. 
> 
> Tad <3

Ben never ran from problems. It wasn't the way he was taught, and yet he needed to leave before he said something that he couldn't take back. So he did and apparently slammed the door behind him for good measure. The sensible part of his mind chastised him for this. Told him that he should call out an apology over his shoulder as he beat a hasty retreat, but Benedict ignored that voice. At least this one time. Even if it meant that he had left Martin to deal with the aftermath while he fled to an alternate location. How very fucking Sherlock Holmes of him to do. 

He kept moving forward to someplace that wasn't the deceptively comfortable office of Mark Gatiss. He already knew that there would be emails sent and his agent informed. All lines of communication questioning his work ethic and his sanity in equal parts, and maybe the scrutiny was valid. That this all served him right in some existential sort of way.

Everything around him sounded as if it was muffled in cotton, and he might have been screaming but it was too difficult to make out his voice from Martin’s at the moment. He had come in like a blast of fire in a frozen dressing room. The dressing room in question belonged to the man formerly known as Benedict Cumberbatch, who presently was stuttering out apologies and excuses as he attempted to fix this. 

“We’ll figure this out,” Martin whispered, and Ben closed his eyes to the words as if the darkness might somehow block them out. “Mark has no fucking idea what he’s - hey...look at me…”

The tingle from Martin’s hands felt too close to razors blades as he took Ben’s hands and he tried to play the part of the peacemaker. The role seemed ill-fitted for the likes of Martin Freeman, but he still pressed through it and Benedict needed that more than anything now. 

“Look at me…” he repeated, soft and so close that Ben could smell the morning tea they shared still on Martin’s lips. The couch dipped down with Martin’s recognizable weight as the steady hands slid up to Ben’s waist and stayed there. The thumbs now the only movement as Ben finally did what Captain Watson directly, and opened his eyes. 

Martin had no right to be that handsome, yet there he sat with his silvery hair slightly tousled by his own worrying fingers. His eyes at this moment were an intense shade of indigo that had seen too much in a life worth living to the fullest, and Benedict exhaled as Martin moved even impossibly closer.

“Say it,” Ben breathed, a tinge of pleading in his voice that Martin mercifully disregarded. “Please say it.”

“I love you,” Martin whispered back and then kissed Ben before he could respond in kind. Benedict might have tried harder to say it back, but instead, he reshaped his long arms and legs to allow the man who knew him best the most to settle into the empty spaces. The gentle glide of lips and tongues and woven moans as they just made this what they needed, and in a jolt of realization Benedict broke the kiss and stared up into Martin’s flushed and bewildered face. Then the expression softened to what Sherlock _always_ observed when John Watson finally understood. 

“You just solve our problem, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Ben answered, and the delight reflected back in Martin’s eyes more spectacular as any dull triple murder in a room locked from the inside. “I have.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plan is in the making...along with a bit of a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi fellow Freebatchers,
> 
> It's a small chapter today because the next one is going to be a doozy! Thank you as always for such kind comments and supportive words both here and through my Tumblr and Twitter accounts. If you are so inclined to chat, my handles are Enterthetadpole on Tumblr and TadpoleNinja on Twitter. 
> 
> Stay safe,  
> Tad ♥️

As much as Sherlock Holmes and Benedict Cumberbatch blended in with each other, there were definite differences between them. Even if Martin had not been paying as much attention to facts more than he'd ever admit, he savored watching the taller man's metamorphosis right before him. 

Whereas Sherlock was all sharp edges and acidic wit with a soft underbelly if you were stubborn and patient enough to discover it, Ben's humility and sweetness could rebuild ecosystems. Martin wondered which one of the bastards he had fallen in love with first. 

"So you want us to...just ignore the script?" Martin asked, now in a slightly more decent and distant place on the couch. His expression was incredulous, but Ben nodded as he leaned a bit more into Martin's direction. 

"Well, yes and no," Ben explained. "More that we alter it a bit. Mark and Steven always give us free rein to come up with extra movements and change a few lines here or there...so it isn't really a suspicious thing for us to do.”

The worry lines on Martin’s face deepened. “It’s one thing to throw in an ad-lib about your cheekbones and quite another to cancel the death of one of the leads.”

Martin now apparently was adding _devil’s advocate_ to his long list of roles. 

“The cameras always keep rolling...even when we do something different than intended. Worse case we at least give the crew who has worked so hard on the show with us a proper send-off for John and Sherlock. Best case...our change makes it to the deleted scenes. This can work. _We_ can make this work.”

“Are you talking about this insane plan or us in general?”

During times like this Martin wished that he wasn’t able to read Ben’s face like he could. The flicker of pleading to _at least try it out_ that pulled Martin to think activities like shooting murderous cab drivers on a first date were the height of foreplay. 

“Yes to either…. _both_ actually,” Ben corrected with a tilt of his head. Those enchanting eyes piercing the smallest of holes into any layer of doubt that Martin had put up, and to hell to the doubts anyway. 

“Good,” Martin whispered because he couldn’t say something sarcastic and witty when Ben looked at him that way. As if he was the most important person in the room and that feeling was too intoxicating to ever release. “What you said there was...good.”

The knock on the door was meek and tentative, but both men jumped. The door stayed mercifully closed as the voice of what more than likely was a production assistant called out.

“Mr. Cumberbatch? You and Mr. Freeman are wanted on the set in an hour. There was an alteration in the schedule, and scene four will be today instead of next week.”

Martin automatically looked from the door for Benedict to what this meant, and at once Benedict frowned hard. His head raced with the different parts of the most recent script, and not unlike Sherlock inside of a specific part of his own mind palace he shuffled through the pages until scene four was clearly there in front of him.

The lights of John’s bedroom with the lights down low and Sherlock writhing above, eyes closed tight and mouth opened wide in a moan. John’s hands possessively on Sherlock’s hips and thrusting up and in over and over until both of them were broken apart one molecule at a time. 

“The sex scene,” Ben muttered, and Martin blinked several times as if that would help him somehow understand what madness made such an abrupt change needed. 

"What the hell are Mark and Steven playing at?" Martin snapped. 

"Apparently," Ben replied, "We are about to find out….soon."


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The on-camera love making scene, and what comes after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello fellow Freebatchers,
> 
> There were a total of three scenes in my head that had me finally write this story. The first one was the first onscreen kiss, and this is the second one. The first full sex scene and the aftermath. It is explicit, so keep that in mind. Thank you again for all of the support for my story and your comments and kudos do so much for my writing soul. I hope that you enjoy this chapter on Freebatch Friday.
> 
> Tad <3

The bed might as well have been an island with the two of them trapped in the middle of the chaos. The hands of various people moved their legs and arms into positions to make sure that they _looked_ sexy at least. 

“Steady on,” Martin grunted as Liam turned his head with a jerk to the left to rest a little higher on the pillow. “I need my neck for other activities than acting.”

Liam whispered a hasty apology before slinking off, and Benedict tried his best not to laugh too hard at the man he was straddling from above. The angle was just lovely enough for the studio lights to give Martin’s chest hair a heavenly glow that was in stark contrast with the very sour look on his face. 

“You do know that this is a sex scene, right?” Benedict chuckled. “Could you at least _try_ to not act like you’re heading to a public execution?”

Martin shifted his hips and Ben gave a small groan at the contact. The thin layer of fabric between them really did nothing to help to dampen arousal, even if they weren’t being watched and videoed by every single angle ever known. Lovemaking on film rarely were enjoyable affairs, even if you were actively shagging your costar off-screen. 

“A public execution wouldn’t involve this much makeup on my face...or my arse,” Martin mumbled, but there was a lightness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “Besides, you on top is...off-putting.”

Benedict rolled his eyes but then leaned down enough for their chests to touch. It was now Martin’s turn to moan a little, but no one seemed to be paying too much attention to them. The whisper into Martin’s ear went mostly unnoticed. 

“Bottoming from the top is _still_ bottoming, Captain Watson.”

The richness of Martin’s giggles was the thing that dreams were made of, and perhaps Ben would live off of them for a while. Gather them up as bumblebees did flakes of pollen throughout the day until the hives burst with enough honey to feed the world. 

“God, what madness got John to do this with you,” Martin asked, and it was difficult to tell if the question was rhetorical. Benedict hummed, sat up, and then steepled his fingers in mock contemplation. 

“An obsession with instability and the very real fact that I look _stunning_ in a Belstaff.”

Martin shrugged his shoulders in soft surrender to both points. His hands finding homes on Benedict’s hipbones before giving a gentle squeeze. His thumbs grazed the wisps of auburn curls of the v line, and Ben raised an eyebrow.

“Save it for the cameras,” Ben smirked, “And for later tonight.”

“Agreed,” Martin smirked back.

"Closed set and no talking. If anyone calls out anything that isn't about a sudden health situation or that part of the set is literally on fire then no one cares until the end of this shoot.” Mark hesitated for a fraction of a moment to look around to assure that everyone heard him clearly. A few people here and there nodded that they definitely understood. “We are going all-in with this one. No cuts at all. Ben...Martin...we’re going from this directly into Sherlock’s confession, right? Lighting cues only, and Martin...try to stay lined up with camera three if possible. We start on my countdown. Two-minute warning…”

Liam came back this time with reinforcements. Sherlock’s curls were sprayed with something vaguely shiny as last moment makeup touches were placed on John’s shoulder scar. The lighting of John’s bedroom darkened enough to show the faint outlines of their silhouettes on the wall beside them. 

“Ten seconds,” Mark called out. “Nine...eight...seven…”

Benedict inhaled the scenery around the two of them before being pulled down by the strong hands of the army doctor who wanted him. _Him._ The improbable nature of it kept him awake past any case for _The Work_ , and yet when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. That truth here and kissing him as if this was the first time. Writing his name in the lines of his lips and along the ridges of his spine. Feather-light touches of a surgeon who killed when the necessity of it reared its ugly head. That was worth all of the frustration of conversations and the copious amounts of lubrication. 

“Sherlock,” John groaned, his eyes barely opened as Sherlock rocked back and forth. The bed creaked in the steady sounds of a Mozart symphony. 40 in G Minor K. The refrain in time with John’s voice as it hit the correct octaves. “Fuck…”

John lifted himself into a seated position to swirl his tongue around an unguarded nipple. A sensitive area that had been discovered very recently and Sherlock bucked at the sensation. The deepening movement hit in just the right way that both of them shaking, with Sherlock’s mouth falling open in a collision of rolling pleasure that had John’s sturdy arms straining to keep Sherlock connected. 

Electricity pulsed from everywhere as Sherlock felt John’s hand in the soft curls and tugged. The blossom of pain one that Benedict felt as well, and he stifled a moan. Legs now tightly wrapped around John’s torso as he bounced in his lap over and over again. 

“Oh, shit…” John grunted. His fingernails dug into the small of Sherlock’s back as he met each one of Sherlock’s thrusts. “Yes...god _yes_ …”

Sex was all about sentiment and closeness and Sherlock never chased after either of those ideologies. They were distractions that got in the way of what truly mattered. Why was it so important to flood his precious hard drive with what stupid planets went around the sun?

"Right there," John cried out. "You feel spectacular around me...."

It was important when John Watson lived on one of those stupid planets, and Sherlock would never consider love a dangerous disadvantage ever again. Not when all the walls of the rooms of his mind palace were expanding with an everlasting beacon of light. 

"I...need to watch you…" and in the next moment Sherlock was on his back, whimpering with legs opened wide. John pressing in and out in jutted rhythm, with eyes so deeply blue that Sherlock already drowned. 

Sherlock's cock twitched once, then twice before he came in aborted gasps that pulled John over that same tipping point. A final rush of relief before they both exhaled at once, and John was there again. Kissing him with words that Sherlock couldn't say back yet, but desperately wanted to. 

The light of the room became a much richer golden hue, and Martin slid off of Ben to rest alongside him. Even with his eyes closed Martin already knew the proper angle make sure camera three captured him in the best way. The sight broke something in the marrow of Sherlock’s ribcage and at once the ache of not telling John what he saw was worse than any agony he ever experienced during the multiple stints at rehab. 

John was sweaty and smelled of exhaustion, but he reciprocated enough to Sherlock’s embrace to make a sound of happiness as he was held tight. Sherlock theorized that John appreciated affection in an hour or so after intercourse, but the doctor in John seemed to know that this hug was different. Poignant in the length and the duration, and Sherlock squared his shoulders for what came next. 

“Sherlock?”

He was being studied by John right now. Not in the same way that Sherlock swept a crime scene with two parts cold detachment and one part irritation for the idiots staring at him as he worked. John instead had the slow and careful approach of a man who was aware that at any second the entirety of this new life could detonate. Nothing left but ash and bone fragments, but still he ventured forward. Even now, in the throws of afterglow John’s bravery shone through.

“John...I…”

This was all wrong. The timing was off and Sherlock’s voice sounded rasped with the cries from what must have been centuries ago. John moved up to look directly at him which didn’t help Sherlock at all. It was too much. Felt like swallowing broken glass at gunpoint. 

“Did you want me to leave you alone for a while?” John offered, and Sherlock flinched at the sacrifice. “Is me being here too - “

“I love you.”

John stared as if the words hovered in between them. As if the words were as tangible as the duvet now pooling around their legs and ankles. Soft, warm, protected, and undeniably _theirs_. 


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin just can't seem to catch a break...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi fellow Freebatchers,
> 
> We are getting to the home stretch of the story. I hope that you all have been enjoying reading as much as I have enjoyed writing it. I am slowly trying to get to all of your wonderful comments. They are truly what has been keeping me going as of late, and thank you for it. A big shut out to Fandoms_Unite for their assistance in this chapter. Such an awesome cheerleader and I really do not deserve them. 
> 
> As always, kudos, comments and love are life. 
> 
> Tad <3

“Tell me that Billy got this wrong…” Mike grumbled on the other end of the phone. “This is all a joke and I should be laughing in a second, right?”

“It’s…” Martin began and then sighed. 

“Shit,” Mike moaned, and then the sound of what Martin was sure was his agent slamming his head on his desk. “Shit...shit... _shit_. And then you both just... _confessed_ to Mark?”

Martin glanced over towards the kitchen wishing that Ben would make those drinks a bit faster.

“The co-creator of the show… _that_ Mark...” Mike continued, and there went the noise of him thumping his skull onto another solid surface. More than likely his office door this time. “Waltzed right into his office and told him... _told_ him...and then for good measure went and demanded a total change in the last episode storyline?”

Martin didn’t remember sitting down in one of the closest armchairs in the living room, but somehow there he was. The mobile now on speaker phone while he rubbed his temples with his index fingers. The migraine was about to take hold completely. 

“You were aware that my suggestion for burying the hatchet with Ben didn’t include _sleeping_ with him...that’s not how that euphemism works…”

Martin looked longingly at the kitchen. The clinking sounds of ice hitting two glasses meant that soon Benedict would be heading to his rescue sooner than later Liquor usually rearranged problems instead of actually fixing them. They created old catastrophes into more pleasing shapes that gave Martin more time to figure out what to do next. Despite what photographers and ex-lovers showed the public, he wasn’t really a heavy drinker. Instead, he was more willing to bend an elbow than raise his voice as the years passed him by. 

Drinks were discussed somewhere in the space within Mark shouting _CUT!_ and the whirl of getting both Ben and himself clothed and off the set. The mood of celebration in every single person who crossed Martin’s path as he eventually made it back to his dressing room to shower, reflect on what just happened, and then shower one more time. 

“And you know that I could give less of a damn about you exploring whatever sexuality you want,” Mike rattled on. “But Ben is a married man..with children... ” Mike took a couple of deep breaths, and then asked in the careful inflection one might have when trying to calm a very skittish cat. "Is this you having some mid-life crisis? Explain how this isn't you trying to commit some kind of progressive form of career suicide."

Martin huffed at that. As if the death of his time in the spotlight would be that simple. 

"I don't see why even if it came out how that would change much of anything," Martin retorted, and he was impressed by the firmness of his tone. "Sophie is aware, and she's been fine about it...even though I’m still baffled by that but...if there's backlash so fucking be it. I can still get work on stage, so I’ll manage just fine.”

His vision was swimming, and he hadn’t even tasted anything stronger than water yet. Maybe alcohol was a bad idea for tonight. 

“And what about Benedict?” Mike muttered. “It’s his reputation that’s also on the line with this madness.”

This was madness. The type of madness that made Martin want to curse out and cheer on himself at the very same instance. Yet that would be another headline for the tabloids to squeal about. 

_International “star” Martin Freeman ends up in a high-security mental facility regarding an ongoing affair with Benedict Cumberbatch._

This seemed an appropriate way for this all to end. Not with a whisper, but with a bang of a scandal. With Amanda screeching at the top of her lungs about how she always knew that Freebatch was the wedge that ripped its way through everything that she worked for so long. 

“Martin? You can’t think that a bit of fun can be worth your career...right?”

It’s not like Martin hadn’t thought up this very same question himself. The various paths all ended up in this being a mistake, and yet he kept running forward. He opened his mouth to say something - _anything_ to convince Mike that he and Ben would work this out in a way that would keep everything and everyone they held precious secured and protected. 

“It’s not just a bit of fun, Mike…”

Martin was never the type to just admit he was frightened at all. That type of talk could get him beaten up as a child and laughed at as an adult. In all his years he’d learn to thicken his skin to the outside world, but when people he trusted needed to poke around, he didn’t shy away nearly as much. 

“Oh dear god…” 

And there it was. 

“...you’re in love with the man, aren’t you?”

Instead of an answer, Martin did the next best thing. Mike would probably send a few angry texts after such an abrupt disconnect, which was more than understandable. All in all, Mike was trying to save one of his best clients from strapping this bomb of a bad decision onto his chest in the hopes that a high functioning sociopath would save the day in the end.

“Was that Mike on the phone?”

Martin looked up to see Benedict standing with two glasses of scotch. His browline slightly knitted as he correctly theorized what that conversation had been about. 

“Yes,” Martin muttered. “But...if we can talk about it later. Right now, I really need one of those drinks.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They talk...well, not really, but sort of?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there Freebatchers,
> 
> Thank you again for your patience as I slowly get chapters out. This was a difficult one, not because of our boys. They are never an issue. it's more about me and me running into another wall of self-doubt about my talent as a writer. Not meant to expect pity at all. Just rambling through my processes as I try to be less fretful about myself. As always comments, kudos, and warm hugs help bring brighter things to the surface when darkness rear up. I adore each and every one of you who gives my story a chance whether it's to hang around for the full story or to just glance in to see what all of this insanity is about. We are in the home stretch...I better rehydrate at some point, hmm? 
> 
> Tad <3

A drink or two, and then they’d have a proper chat. That’s what had been agreed upon after Ben walked in to see Martin on what looked like the brink of a nervous collapse. About to tumble off into a catacomb that even his long arms wouldn’t be able to reach. Ben had known the look well. Amanda usually was interwoven, even after they had finally separated. 

“This…” Martin managed, “...isn’t really us talking.”

Benedict’s chuckle vibrated along the inner line of Martin’s thigh. The kisses - hot as they skittered around the more sensitive spaces. The hands held Martin’s hips in place to limit his movements, which took a lot more strength than he first realized. 

“Sure it is,” Ben whispered. “You ask me whatever you want, and I’ll answer when appropriate.” 

Martin mumbled a curse, and Ben continued to use his teeth to create little spasms onto the soft flesh there. The tan lines disappeared into the paler circumferences and Ben caressed them with all practiced ease. 

“Difficult to think of questions at the - oh _bloody hell_.” 

Making Martin not to be able to finish his sentences was now Benedict’s new favorite activity. The shuddering way that each little sound made from Martin’s mouth told Ben another page of the story of what they slowly became. Martin’s body was always tightly wound as if in constant preparation to attack. The firmness of his muscles and breaths as Martin tried and failed to relax until Benedict was able to find that one minuscule spot that unraveled the man. A long and low groan left Martin's lips and Ben licked in the exact same place, enjoying the encore. 

“I can practically...feel you smirking...you cock,” Martin muttered with the slightest drift of a giggle in the words. Ben nuzzled in even deeper, knowing that Martin was watching his every move. And Benedict loved that. _Needed_ that to be on top of his game. The warm-hearted one-upmanship that swirled between them. 

"Fairly sure that I'm doing _much_ more than smirking right now."

The trail of pecks became hungrier as Martin spread his legs even wider than before. The hint of impatience floated there, and Ben held onto it like fireflies trapped in a decorative jar. 

"That mouth of yours..."

Ben never heard four simple words sound so accusatory, but he should be used to Martin Freeman's ability to weaponize his vocal inflections. It was part of his finely tuned collection of acting skills that sent Ben's mind spinning with want. And his mind continued spinning because that's what occurred when Martin did anything. When he frowned at oddly placed dialogue or licked his lips for what must have been the eighteenth time of the day. 

Because yes, Ben absolutely counted. Tried to figure which lick lips were just nervousness and which ones had more passionate connotations. The type of passionate connotations that would lead to that same tongue traversing the landscapes of Benedict himself. And with that, he looked up so that Martin could see every bit of the lust collecting in the expanse of his face. 

“Sorry to say that wasn’t a question. Have another go.”

The groan that bubbled up from Martin’s chest was all that was needed to know that Ben was doing a very good job at seduction. Even if his lips were so close to Martin’s erection that he could have whispered to it all of his erotic fantasies. 

“Fine…” Martin huffed, but he still grinned. Strong fingers slipped into the wayward curls. “Where..do you see this going, then?”

With a quirk of Ben’s eyebrow, Martin giggled again. “No...not just what we’re doing now...that’s obvious...I meant..after tonight. After the series finale. What do you want out of us?”

Ben placed a firm hand on the middle of Martin’s belly and slithered it upwards. Enjoyed the twitch of muscles felt as he stopped when he reached Martin’s chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat quivered underneath as Benedict waited for the precise moment for Martin to hold his gaze. 

“For this to be...us. The parameters and restrictions can always be reevaluated, just as long as there is an _us_ for as long as we both want it.”

Martin choked back what must have been a half sob mixed in with a laugh, and then placed his hand on top of Ben’s before making the same sound again. 

“That has to be...the most romantic use of the terms _parameters_ and _restrictions_ that I’ve ever heard in my life. Even when you're about to suck my cock you’re a fucking wordsmith.”

Ben threw over a wink as his free hand cradled Martin’s testicles and elicited another delicious moan. 

“I technically said the word _anus_ within that last sentence...if that helps lighten the mood.”

“It does,” Martin replied, his smile radiant. “Should I ask another question?”

Instead of an answer Benedict dipped his head down and slipped Martin into his mouth. The hardness and salt on every inch of his tongue and Martin cried out a curse. The silky slide of velvety firmness was intoxicating and real. So was the press of taut thighs on the sides of Benedict’s face as Martin flexed his hips to go as deeply as Ben could handle. Thankfully he could handle a lot. 

“Fuck...fuck... _fuck_ …” Martin moaned and then screamed as Ben swirled up at the tip. One hand still on Martin’s right hip and the other testing the tightness of his balls to see how close Martin already was. 

“I’m not going to last...fuck….that mouth…”

Benedict slowly licked around the base as he pulled off. Martin’s eyes went wide at the sight of the man above him placing his index finger into his slightly swollen mouth. The hint of pink tongue brought out another raspy curse. 

“My turn to ask a question,” Ben purred as he placed his now wetted finger against Martin’s pucker hole. “May I make you come...just like this?”

Martin groaned as he reached down and gave his own cock a few gentle pulls. “Oh god yes…”

With another smirk, Benedict breached as slowly as he could, and carefully watched for any flickers of pain, but of course, Martin adjusted quickly. Once his finger was completely inside he felt the soft nudge of the place that he needed to hit, and then pushed Martin’s hand away and began to suck Martin once more. He was rewarded with an ungodly sound of pleasure that had Ben giving himself a congratulatory pat on the back. Simultaneous stimulation of the prostate and Martin was a goner in the best of ways. The sway of hips was all that Benedict needed as he shifted enough to get his other hand down his pants and stroke hard and fast. 

“Close...so close. Oh god...you’ve got me seeing fucking _colors..._ you bastard…”

Another feather in the cap of Benedict Cumberbatch, and he’d wear it well. But for now, he sped up just enough to enjoy the sensation of his mouth becoming full as Martin’s hips lifted up and he came and came. Benedict’s own climax a few seconds after, and with a gentle slide out of his finger he allowed himself to be pulled up to the top of the bed to be thoroughly snogged by a properly debauched fellow actor. 

“Not sure if we accomplished much with our talk…” Benedict giggled as they snuggled into the bed. 

Martin shrugged as best he could when your ‘still figuring out the parameter and restrictions’ lover decided to lay half on top for the cuddle afterward. Stealing kisses along with most of the covers but Benedict was very certain that Martin knew what he was getting into with him. Mostly, anyway. 

“Actually our talk was perfect...I can always get another agent if it heads that way.” Martin tilted his chin up and Benedict gladly accepted the kiss. “But there is only one you.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A final scene together before all hell breaks loose within the final episode of the series, and Ben and Martin find a quiet place to talk afterwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has taken a while, and thank you all so much for being patient with me over it. A huge hug to both 7PercentSolution and Fandoms_Unite for their cheerleading and cherishing of this story, and to all of you who have given me such lovely and caring comments. I have been very very slow to respond back to them, but please believe me that they are one of the reasons that I keep at it. We are in the final chapters. The outline and many parts of this story have been changed, deleted and rewritten and fretted over by me. I appreciate each and every one of you so much, and cheers.
> 
> Tad <3

The sound of the clock ticking had Mike going very twitchy. He scrubbed at his rounded face with the palm of his hand as he glanced once more at Sherlock’s hunched over back.

“So...John should be here…?”

If Mike had prayed that the prompted question would be sufficient to rouse an answer out of Sherlock, he was sadly mistaken. The corners of Mike’s mouth dipped into a frown, and he again looked at the clock on the wall. 

“John usually arrives at half-past 5 unless there’s traffic,” Sherlock answered. His head still down as he adjusted his microscope. “Obviously there was traffic.”

Sherlock paused to give Mike time to absorb the soft insult. He had been working on less sharpened barbs. Something that he had promised John in a post cordial bliss that he over the days had dearly regretted. 

“Right…” Mike said, finally. He shifted on the couch as he tried to find something to do to pass the time. Sherlock was clearly giving signals that he wasn’t up for any sort of chit chat at all. 

“There are magazines on the coffee table for a reason, Mike…unless you’re deeply invested in mold culture variances.”

Sherlock smirked at the sound of Mike picking up a magazine. A few minutes later the door of 221b opened wide to John looking decidedly windswept and wholly apologetic. The camera on Benedict’s right side slid in just a fraction to film the most important part of the scene. 

Mike smiled over at John as he plopped the magazine back on the coffee table and stood up in greeting. 

“Sorry, Mike...traffic was awful the whole way back. How have you been? It’s been ages, yeah?”

It was hard to focus while the two of them talked, but Sherlock took a few steady breaths and continued with his work. Thankfully Mike and John would be going out for dinner soon and he would mercifully have the flat to himself for a while. 

“We can head out if you’re ready. You said you had something important to tell me?”

John cleared his throat, then nodded. “Yeah, just...hang on a moment..”

Sherlock heard footsteps heading towards him, and then stopped right next to where he sat at the table. He lifted his head and turned to see John standing there. His face was full of determination that Sherlock only saw when the soldier within John made an absolute decision. 

Mike was just in the background and his puzzled expression mirrored Sherlock’s almost perfectly. 

“John...what…” Sherlock began, but he paused at the touch of Martin’s thumb and forefinger on the sides of his chin. The subtle pressure there so that Benedict’s head tilted back and Martin leaned in and kissed him. 

There was a millisecond of fear of the fact that they were not alone that flew through Sherlock’s mind palace before his eyes slipped shut. The softness of Martin’s lips sent goosebumps over every place that Ben was thankful was covered by long costumed fabric. They only briefly talked about this kiss beforehand. The suggestion made that John would want to make the moment a promise, and Sherlock would accept it without further question. Martin did his part, and Ben hoped that the camera showed him at least trying to keep up. 

Once the kiss was broken, both of them looked over to Stamford. His mouth was partially open as his wide eyes went from John and then to Sherlock. 

“That...was the something important then?” Mike asked, after swallowing comically hard. 

“It was, yeah.” 

Sherlock felt his face warm at the unfolding scene and glanced up to John’s beaming face. 

“Well, about bloody time,” Mike smiled back, even brighter. “Congrats to the two of you.”

The cameras moved out of the areas and Steven called for a cut. Martin nudged Ben with his elbow and gave a cheery grin. “Great job,” he said, followed by a look back over to David. “You as well. Fantastic way to have you back.”

David swept forward and quickly both Martin and himself were wrapped in David’s hug. The three of them chuckled as people entered from all around them to start to clear the set. There was a mixture of joy and melancholy all around them. The final scenes for the final series in Ben’s head were going over the _not dead_ plan over and over again. 

“I think you’ve killed that cow for a second time.”

Ben looked up from where he’s been absent-mindedly stabbing at his filet mignon with his fork. Martin sat across from him in the dimly lit restaurant with his eyebrows creased in soft concern.

“Sorry,” Ben responded automatically. “It’s...sorry.”

The sound of piano music and the soft conversations of the small number of other tables gave the restaurant the quiet air of a place where secrets were made and stayed hidden. When Martin had suggested where to eat Ben hadn’t thought much about it, other than the food was supposedly very good and if a paparazzi was to get a photo at least they were clever enough to come in separate vehicles. 

Ben felt a small bump of Martin’s knee connecting to his under the table, and he glanced over at Martin again.

“Part of the reason why we came here was to _talk_ about all of the worries going on in our heads. You are aware of that, right?”

“Yes, it was…”

Martin gave Ben a stare that was classic frustrated Martin Freeman, and Ben had to laugh at the way he was acting around one of the only people who knew him so well. 

“It’s...I’m - “

“If you apologize again I’ll stab you with my _own_ fork...so help me I will.”

Ben smiled and went back to his steak. It was quite good once he actually started to eat it. They spent a while just enjoying the food and the ambiance. The calmness was every so often broken by a server zipping by them with wine to a neighboring table, or the occasional touch of a leg against the other. Ben was sure that he was red-cheeked by more than just the alcohol. 

“I believe that it just finally hit me what we’re doing on Friday,” Ben admitted. 

Martin nodded. “Me too. It’s...a risk, but I think that you’ve been right about it. It’s what should happen, and by god I’m insane to say this out loud but...I trust your gut instinct in this.” Martin hesitated a fraction before taking his left hand and placing it on top of Ben’s right. “We’re in this together, yeah?”

“Yes...we are. Together.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final plan goes into action

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have made it to the final chapter, and just in time for Freebatch Friday. Notes and thank you are at the bottom of the page/

The last few months had all been a dress rehearsal for this exact moment. Lines memorized at a fevered pitch until Martin could recite the words backward if demanded. Not that it ever was demanded, but it was comforting to have that confidence lining the inner seams of his jacket as he took a breath in. He held it there for as long as his lungs would allow and then exhaled the actor out of his mouth so the invalided army doctor who fell in love with a madman detective was all that remained. 

“Cameras ready,” Steven’s voice called out. “Stay on Martin throughout the scene. Starting in 15 seconds.”

John turned to see Greg to his right. The midday sun shimmered in the salt and pepper hair as the DI waited. Even the trees seemed to be pausing for Moffit’s signal.

“One time through if we can,” Steven went on. “Losing daylight already. 10...9...7…”

A steady gaze and a rapid pulse. Way more than a bit not good, but that’s what John Watson revealed in. That was who Sherlock  _ needed _ right now.

“4...3…”

“Sherlock…” John whispered. 

“And...go!”

John took the pathway to the right with Greg right behind. Lush trees swayed over them as if this was less a search and more of a mid-afternoon stroll. Epping Forest. The landscape was almost identical to the most recently received pictures. Along with a bevy of taunts with no assurances that Sherlock was even alive, let alone safe. The gravitas of both the situation and the air weighed down John’s spine as he marched forward. The mobile phone clutched in his left hand as he again took another quick look to check for any new text messages.  _ Nothing. _ How the bloody fuck could there still be nothing?

“We’ve got men everywhere,” Greg mentioned. His eyes glanced from John’s face and down to the mobile. “If Sherlock’s out there, we’ll find him…”

John didn’t want to hear any outliers or caveats that belonged at the end of Greg’s words. The realistic sting of what John should prepare himself for, but mercifully the DI kept his assurances on the right side of hope; John could mold that into whatever the configuration of his rising panic called for. 

Greg stumbled on a fallen branch but just managed to keep his balance. The terrain was made more for youthful hikers than middle-aged investigators, but distress had a way of melting away the years. Gave both of them frantic energy that reminded John of never leaving a man behind.

“Over there!” Lestrade called out, and John swiveled around to see where the DI had pointed. With a sweep of recognition, John sprinted towards a small patch of brush hidden in the shade. The rich material of a Belstaff coat twisted in the vines and the figure within it way too still. 

John’s bad shoulder could give less of a damn at the strength needed to pull Sherlock out of the mockery of a grave. Instead, all of the doctor’s desperation went to touching the vital areas on impact. Hands roving everywhere and voice barking out orders to Greg to stay back as he worked. 

Sherlock’s face and body showed signs of a long-fought battle. Bruises half-healed before whatever monster did this released a fresh assault. John already knew that the skin beneath his fingers was way too cold, but he didn’t care. Sherlock dead at his feet had happened before. The lack of a pulse a magic trick. Best to categorize the injuries. 

“Broken ribs,” he began. The crunch of Greg’s shuffling footsteps in the fallen leaves behind him. “Three...no...two. Lacerations on the right arm and cranial injury. Most likely a concussion but - “

“John...” Lestrade began.

“We need a stretcher,” John continued, taking advantage of Lestrade’s hesitation. “Get someone the fuck down here.”

The scarlet and golden leaves interwoven into untamed curls. The ever-present eyes now vacantly stared up and into the clouded sky. John blinked away all thoughts of what this meant. The gun in his inner pocket bumped up against his thigh as he pushed himself to remain in a medical temperament. 

More people were closing in. Some of them muttered words of concern while one or two made sounds of retching before hurrying away. Lestrade was still the closest, and John felt the heat of a hand on his shoulder before shaking it loose. 

His shaking lips on lips too cold as John’s air invaded Sherlock’s lungs. The action was a corrupted reflection of a kiss. The muted suggestions of the bystanders like flies as they buzzed around John’s ears as he worked. The motions that absorbed John’s attention were the minuscule rise and fall of Sherlock’s narrow chest as the breath forced inside of him became distraught.

Chest compressions came next, and with a lurch of sickness, John knew that the technique would further damage ribs. He steadied himself before placing his palms down and pressing down in the rhythm of what Sherlock’s heart refused to do. Sherlock’s lithe body jerked at John’s ministrations but did nothing on his own. 

“John, I don’t think - ” 

“He’s not,” John snapped back, instinctively knowing that it was Greg who had spoken. He would have been the only one brave enough to get so close. “He can’t….get fucking medic and leave us.”

The rationality of John was gone. Stripped away layer by layer and strewn all over London so that all that remained was a nakedness of his conviction. Sherlock Holmes wasn’t allowed to die. Not again. Not when they had come so far and had created a home with walls and warmth and Rosie’s laughter. 

Another exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide into the open mouth who only 48 hours earlier had cried out in frustration. The exasperation at the case bleeding out onto the wooden floor of Baker Street until John had left with a sleepy toddler in arms to escape for a quieter afternoon. A respite that had become the worst decision of John’s life. A nightmare of chasing cryptic clues that had Sherlock’s mortality on the line. 

If this had been reversed, Sherlock would have found him sooner. There would be no need for CPR and the firm fingers of Lestrade as he tried in vain to pull him away from what was such an obvious conclusion. 

John was trembling now. His voice was forever broken as he cradled Sherlock in his arms and waited to die alongside him. Perhaps nature would be merciful and his heart would just give out. It hadn’t belonged to him in over a decade anyway. John closed his eyes at the touch of silky curls as he ran his fingers through. He wanted to build his own mind palace for the sensation to exist when abruptly his hand felt something off and his eyes fluttered back open. A few folded pieces of leaves in the thick curls in the back of Sherlock’s head. The oval leaves with one single bell-shaped purple flower on the stem didn’t match anything around them. A flood of memories of seeing this plant before. The sound of Sherlock’s voice in a dusty conversation about the nature of the use of this very plant and came to John in a sob. 

“Nightshade,” he shouted. “He’s been poisoned by nightshade.”

“What?” Rupert replied, his tone completely taken aback. Thankfully the focal camera was trained on Martin’s face so Rupert’s bewildered expression was lost to footage. Martin was prepared for this answer. It’s where the script had deviated. The whispered conversations between Ben and himself now took hold.

“Nightshade,” John repeated as he gently placed Sherlock back onto the ground. “I have to continue CPR. It mimics the symptoms of death. Get help at once!”

Lestrade bolted from the spot that he was in as he snapped at everyone to start clearing a path. John went to work with a new sense of urgency. Sherlock must have found out how he was going to die, and he  _ knew _ that John would find him and do what John always did when he found Sherlock asleep.  _ Run his fingers through Sherlock’s curls.  _

Martin waited for an angry shout of Mark or Steven to stop their plan, but just the sounds of the rest of the cast remained within the scene as they went along with whatever madness was happening in front of them. Martin silently willed Ben to finish what they started and then Sherlock gasped in a breath. Eyes instantly darting from side to side as he coughed once and then twice on his own. 

“Don’t talk,” John whispered. His left hand found Sherlock’s right and gave it a small squeeze. “Just breathe in and out as evenly as you can.”

Sherlock tried and failed to nod his head that he understood. The sound of Mark as he called for the end of the scene and Ben lifted himself onto his shoulders as both he and Martin sighed in unison. Then something they hadn’t expected. Applause and cheers from the cast and crew around them. How bloody brilliant was that. 

They quieted down as both Gatiss and Moffat had their way over to them. Steven had the look of a man who had just been cheated on by a long-term lover, while Mark’s face was very pale. Neither of the expressions fit them at all. 

“Whatever the hell you both were thinking,” Steven began, his mouth in such a deep frown that Martin wondered if it would be permanently stuck that way. “You had absolutely no fucking right or authority to do it.”

Ben fully sat up and opened his mouth to respond, but stopped at the glare that Mark gave him. 

“However,” Mark went on, his tone now softened more than Martin had ever heard it before. “You’re bloody lucky that it was brilliant. Fuck off with the original plan. Sherlock lives. Now get off the set while Steven and I figure out how to write a bit more into the script to make this work.”

Both of the men walked away without another word, but Martin was sure that he saw Mark give a small wink. Ben’s deep chuckle had him turn back around to look at the smiling face. 

“We did it,” Martin said, and Ben's smile brightened even more. 

  
“Yes, we did,” Ben answered back, and Martin’s soul soared at the Sherlockian loftiness. “Obviously.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I want to say thank you to everyone who has cheered on this story. I am such a fretful writer and sticking my toe into Freebatch was nerve-wracking, but with the kindness and encouragement of the Freebatch and Johnlock fandom, I made it to the other end. I know that my writing is far beyond perfect but I appreciate your lovely comments and kudos. I have been brought to happy tears so many times by the members of the fandom. Here are just some of the people within my life that made it possible for me to finally finish a bloody solo piece. In no particular order because I love you all!
> 
> SherlockWatson_Holmes, idontmind, Fandoms_Unite, 7PercentSolution, redenodersterben, madsydva, MoriLuckySortir, spideyxmoriarty, JennLynn77, Reachem, holmesian_love, Lakota0518, Mort_Rouge_1895, @bookgirlwlove, @mentionio and @Holmes84Sophb. (sorry if there were duplicates in there!)
> 
> There is also a sequel coming once I get a few of my WIPs into the completed status. You all have been amazing, and thank you again for allowing me the pleasure of writing for you.
> 
> All the love that bees provide,  
> Tad <3


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